Perfect
by Syntyche
Summary: Sometimes when we stumble off of the safe path, the most unlikely people, those who barely know us at all, are the ones who reach out a hand to guide us back.
1. The Illusion of Peace

**Title**: Perfect

**Author**: Syntyche

**Rating**: PGish

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Desperate Housewives and I am not making any money off of this fic, but I too would jam popsicle sticks down my sink for a visit from Wisteria Lane's local plumber.

Reviews will be adored and cherished.

* * *

_Takes places sometime near the end of Season Two, after episode 21, "I Know Things Now," but before Edie burns the Mayers' house down. Could be considered slightly A/Uish at the beginning, possibly becoming **very **A/U by the end. ;D _

_**Perfect**_

By: Syntyche

_Perfection. _

_Though many of us know that we cannot even come close to achieving this glorious end, some of us can fool ourselves into believing that we can somehow manage, that we can somehow be … perfect._

_Like my friend, Bree Van de Kamp. Although she had once confided to me, in a rare moment of raw openness, that she hadn't always tried so hard to be faultless, from my current view, I could see that she had redoubled her efforts to be as spotless as the silver she polished every Spring._

_In fact, I could also see that if she didn't slow down soon, I would be having company quite sooner than I expected. _

_Fortunately for Bree, the Road is filled with many surprises, one of which is that sometimes when we stumble off of the __safe path, the most unlikely people, those who barely know us at all, are the ones who reach out a hand to guide us back._

Chapter One: The Illusion of Calm

Solemnly, Bree regarded the still full bottle resting before her on the perfectly polished tabletop. She had tried very hard lately to refrain from indulging in her new-found vice, but of late the sweet lure of blissful intoxication had been so comforting, the only thing familiar in a world that had changed so rapidly despite her best efforts to hold everything together. She'd lost Rex, the love of her life; she'd lost Peter, when she'd thought they had a chance; and in the same cruel blow, she'd lost her only son.

_Andrew… _she sighed, dropping her face into her hands. The last time she'd felt this helpless, she'd been a child scrubbing her mother's blood off of an icy street just before Christmas.

Giving the bottle a last rueful glance, but knowing the battle wasn't over yet, Bree pushed herself away from the table, rising slowly and tiredly. It seemed to her that she was always tired these days – that is, unless she was wrapped up in the heavenly calm derived from a freshly-emptied wineglass. She knew that when she sank into the depths of inebriated peace, she was slowly destroying herself and becoming less and less of the poised and controlled woman she had been, getting farther away from the Bree Van de Kamp that her friends knew so well, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

_I need to splash some water on my face._

Reluctantly leaving the wine behind, Bree walked quietly to the bathroom. The temptation of the bottle called to her, welcomed her, and wrapped her in a warm and comforting, familiar embrace. It especially helped on nights like tonight, when Danielle was away at a friend's house, and the huge Van de Kamp home seemed so alone and empty.

Ugh. Not that Danielle hadn't left souvenirs behind. Bree frowned as she dropped her eyes from the mirror to the sink. Long strands of dirty blonde hair liberally laced the ceramic basin, and Bree had the sinking feeling that there was more than she could see on the surface. Hesitantly she turned the cold water knob; as she expected, water rushed down the drain for only a moment before leaking back into the basin, filling it slowly and draining even more slowly.

_I have told that girl so many times not to brush her hair over the sink,_ she sighed, but without any heat behind it. She wanted to fuss, to fume, but she told herself to be patient. Trying to reign Andrew in so tightly had only had the opposite effect, and she knew she'd been walking on thin ice with Danielle as well of late. It was better to just leave Danielle alone and solve the problem herself. All she needed was a little bit of Draino and _voila! _Problem solved. Everything would be back as it should.

Bree sighed, raising her eyes back to the mirror and shaking her head slowly at the hollow, lonely woman who stared accusingly back at her. _I am losing my mind_.

_Lord, this house is empty._

As she passed the table, completely clean except for a centerpiece she'd designed herself, and that still, silent bottle of wine, she unconsciously snagged the bottle on her way past. Even gripping the cool neck in her hand eased some of the tension that had been tightening her shoulders, and Bree relaxed just a little as she stooped down to reach into the cabinets below the kitchen sink. Pulling out the small bottle of drain cleaner, her full lips turned down in a frown as she gave the bottle a quick shake. Empty. Apparently, Danielle's sink clogging activity was nothing new.

Bree looked at the full bottle in her left hand, and the empty bottle in her right.

_Well, I'll take care of it tomorrow._

Which meant that there was plenty of time left tonight to … relax.

Bree primly retrieved a wineglass and reseated herself at the table, relishing the anticipation of once again drowning herself in the quiet center amidst the whirlpool that her life had become.

Still, something was amiss. The clogged sink in her otherwise spotless bathroom was nagging at the back of her mind.

Bree shook her head quickly to clear it, as if she could dismiss the irritation like a buzzing fly, and redirected her attention to happily removing the stopper.

Still, that sink demanded her attention.

The redhead pulled the stopper out at last, laying the corkscrew gently on a woven coaster beside the bottle, and sniffed appreciatively at the strong, woody scent of the wine that clung to the cork. Already she imagined the delicious warmth spreading through her, fighting away the cold that seemed to permeate every inch of her slim body.

Bree tipped the mouth of the bottle towards her glass …

But that sink refused to be ignored.

With a tiny sigh, Bree replaced the cork in the bottle and rose swiftly. It wouldn't take more than twenty minutes to run to the store and back, and then she could return to her self-made haven.

* * *

Bongo whimpered, and his tired owner lifted his dark head to regard the German Shepherd warily, but with a smile. 

"What's a matter, boy? Need to stretch your legs too, huh?"

Mike Delfino set aside the book he'd been skimming. He hadn't really been able to concentrate on it; his thoughts had been so chaotic since he'd …confronted … the PI Edie'd hired to spy on her neighbors to find out who Karl was fooling around with. The fact that the PI had singled out Susan as the likely culprit was almost laughable – she'd seemed to detest her ex-husband so much, Mike had a hard time believing that she'd willingly fall back into his charming, cheating arms – especially after that amazing tirade she'd launched that karaoke night on Julie's birthday.

But then, who knew? He was so damned confused about the whole thing – everything had been happening so fast, and so agonizingly slowly at the same time. He'd moved here not so long ago, desperate to find any last traces of the woman he'd loved, and found not only Deirdre, but also his son – their son – and a new woman who had laughed, teased, and stumbled her way into his heart. After being sad and in the dark for so long, having Susan in his life was like letting in the Sun. She was so … good-natured, so silly despite the rough knocks that life threw her way; she still persisted in slipping and tripping onward with a glowing determination and her bright, pretty smile.

Why had he let her go? He'd fed her that bullshit line about not giving people a second chance – what the hell had he been thinking?

Obviously, he hadn't.

But when she'd told him about Zach, about giving him bus fare to leave the state, he'd been so upset, so afraid he was going to lose his last link to Deirdre, he'd lost his temper. He couldn't even bear to look at Susan at that moment; he'd just had to get away. Since then, she'd apparently moved on with her spleen doctor, and now the PI had said that she was back with Karl …

Mike stood abruptly, shaking off his line of thought as he stretched his long legs and tried to work the kinks out of his shoulders. "C'mon," he said, jerking his head to catch Bongo's attention. The Shepherd immediately jumped up, his tail wagging excitedly, though he held carefully still as Mike gently fastened the leash to his collar.

"Alright, let's go," Mike laughed, brushing his fingers through Bongo's short fur affectionately. He followed Bongo outside, the end of leash wrapped loosely in his hand, and wandered idly behind Bongo as the dog poked and sniffed at anything and everything that was even remotely pokable or sniffable. Mike smiled, relishing in the simplicity and familiarity of this ritual they shared every evening since they'd moved here. Rain or sun, they walked down the length of their street, past the Van de Kamps on the left, and the Mayers on the right. The only difference now in their nightly routine was that he walked alone every night, and he tried not to think. It was so much easier to just not think, about Susan, Deirdre, even Zach. He just … couldn't. He couldn't even bring himself to look at Susan's house anymore, in case he might catch a glimpse of her through her brightly-lit windows – or worse, any "company" she might have. She'd made it pretty clear that she was no longer interested in him, and was quite content to move on, and so had he, for that matter.

The trouble was, he regretted it now. Regretted every footstep he'd taken away from her, and hated the way her pleading voice, screaming his name, echoed in his ears and in the quiet moments of his empty nights.

It hurt. It hurt so damned much he could only try not to think about it. He didn't know what would happen when he finally did, but he did know that he wasn't planning on doing any personal reflection anytime soon.


	2. Means to an End

_A/N to Lily: I'm not sure yet where the story is going. It just strikes me that they're so alike, and this fic was the result of a plot bunny that was rattling around in my brain. I would definitely read a Bree/Mike if you wrote one!_

A/N: This is one of those fics wherein the entire time you're writing it, you're thinking, _why am I writing this? it's bizarre, it's ... strange ..._ but it doesn't die, it just grows. And so you do the logical thing: you type it out, and you share it. g That being said, reviews are adored and cherished, and thanks for reading!

Perfect

By: Syntyche

Chapter Two: Means to an End

As the duo strolled lazily past the Van de Kamp's, the front door swung open and a flustered looking Bree rushed out, her slim hands fumbling clumsily with the keys as she tried to lock the door behind her. Mike had barely spoken to her since that dinner party months ago before her husband had died – it wasn't that he didn't like the redhead, she seemed pleasant enough, but they hadn't really had any reason to chat since then. It didn't bother him, though – he had been putting serious thought into leaving Wisteria Lane soon, and the less ties, the better.

"Hey, Bree," he said politely, and she seemed startled as she glanced down the perfectly-manicured lawn at him. The Van de Kamps' front yard amazed him; it was without question the most beautiful lawn on the street, and he knew that Bree did everything herself, rather than hire a gardener.

"Oh! Hello, Mike," Bree greeted him warmly, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him thoughtfully. "Mike," she said slowly, "I can see that you're busy and I hate to be a bother, but my bathroom sink is clogged. Would you mind being a dear and taking a look at it?"

Mike sighed at the lateness of the hour and sent a silent apology to Bongo. _Sorry, boy, a plumber's work is never done._ He smiled warmly at the distraught woman. "Sure, Bree, not a problem. Let me take Bongo home and get my tools and I'll be right back, okay?"

"Of course," Bree replied graciously. "I'll leave the door open and you can just let yourself in."

"Okay," Mike agreed. "C'mon, Bongo – we'll finish in just a bit, I promise," he placated the dog, scratching behind the Shepherd's ears reassuringly. He turned Bongo aside to take him home, and, despite himself, glanced over his shoulder just for a moment at the brightly lit home of Susan Mayer.

* * *

_What was I thinking? I could have run to the store just as easily instead of troubling that poor man so late at night._

Bree glanced at the clock. 8:34p.m. She was sure that it was past Mike Delfino's usual quitting time, but then her late husband Rex had never seemed to mind after-hours calls – though she wondered now if he'd been "working" at all. Perhaps he'd simply found another way to satisfy his debased lust when that slut Maisy Gibbons was unavailable. The thought made her skin crawl, and she found herself itching for a shower.

Or maybe she just needed a pick-me-up.

Smiling in anticipation, Bree reached for the bottle …

Someone knocked gently on the front door, and then Mike poked his head in. She was about to ask him to remove his grimy workboots, but he took one look at her shining floors and, with a wry grin, knelt to unlace his boots.

Bree smiled.

"Thank you for coming so late. I do appreciate it," she added.

"No problem at all," he assured her, with a 'show me the way' gesture. Bree led him toward the bathroom, and motioned at the sink in disgust. Mike couldn't help but notice the way everything gleamed, and the chrome accents were absolutely spotless. It was … disconcerting, actually. It felt like people lived here without actually _**living**_ here.

Bree watched quietly as Mike worked carefully. She told herself that she stayed to make sure he worked neatly and didn't damage anything, but in reality she was simply lonely and was just enjoying the presence of another human being. It occurred to her that her battle with drinking, and her despair over Rex, would have been so much easier to handle if she'd had a friend around, but who could she have leant on?

Lynette had started working again, and was never home. Any spare moment the poor woman had, she would want with Tom.

Gabby and Carlos had been at each other's throats lately, and Gabby was constantly indulging in her – second – favorite pastime: Retail Therapy, as the ex-model called it.

And Susan had been having … problems. With Karl, with Dr. Ron, …and with the man in front of her. Bree wondered how Mike felt about the situation with Susan, but she knew it wouldn't be polite to ask. She wouldn't want him digging through _**her**_ dirty laundry, after all. It wouldn't be proper.

Still, as she reflected on each of her friends and the struggles they faced, she couldn't help but think how much easier their respective burdens would be if they shared them. It seemed to her that of late they had all drifted into their own worlds, each consumed by their own problems and perhaps too reluctant to share them. She knew that she was. How could she tell anyone that she'd abandoned her son? That, despite her best efforts, he'd turned his back on her. That he _**hated**_ her, and what he'd done to her because of that hate. She could still feel Peter's warm arms around her, hear his reassuring voice in her ear.

Bree closed her eyes, drowning in the sorrow of the memories. How much could one person take before they broke completely?

She needed a drink.

"Hey … you okay?"

Her grey eyes opened to meet Mike's concerned gaze. "Bree?" he continued, eyebrow lifted as he regarded her curiously.

Bree forced a smile, schooling her features into her Perfect Housewife look – one she'd perfected, and was actually quite proud of. "Yes? Yes," her smile widened pleasantly, "I'm fine. Just lost in thought for a moment."

Mike smiled in return, but the query remained in his eyes. "Well, be careful with that. It doesn't lead to anything good, trust me. I'm finished up here," he continued, "and you're all set. Anything else I can do?"

Bree stared at him for a long moment. A polite refusal had been on her lips, but she hesitated.

She didn't want to be alone anymore, at least not tonight.

She couldn't be alone.

"Mike," she said slowly, using his name carefully – it sounded so foreign on her lips. "Would you have a drink with me?"


	3. The Princess and the Plumber

_A/N: Thank you so much to the readers who have taken a moment to review! I appreciate it so much, especially as this is my first foray into Desperate Housewives. This fic was supposed to be a short, one-part story, but it's … grown, and is turning into a multi-chapter with a serious potential for catfights, Mike/Susan, or Mike/Bree, who knows? The story has totally taken on a life of its own. Updates to be more frequent too, I hope:-)_

Perfect

By: Syntyche

Chapter Three: The Princess and the Plumber

The Eyebrow went up again.

"A drink?"

Bree forced a smile, and she could see from Mike's expression that he could tell something was … off. "Yes, a drink," she confirmed cheerily, racking her brain for an explanation as to why she'd asked. "You know, one to knock off, take some time to chew the fat, um … "

Mike broke into a grin that Bree realized lit up his entire expression, and she noted to herself that he was very easy on the eyes, as Gaby would say – indeed, he was quite … pleasant to look at. As he wiped his greasy hands on a rag he'd pulled from the waist of his jeans, she watched surreptitiously. As an afterthought – completely unsolicited, and she was actually scandalized at herself for thinking it – she mused that it was actually amazing he could fit anything else into his jeans (and her face flamed as that thought flashed through her mind.)

_All I meant,_ she told herself firmly, _was that they seem to fit him so perfectly. That's all._ Her eyes, long-since trained to spot perfection, could easily appreciate the way the denim clung in all the right places. And his t-shirt – though standard issue, the type Rex usually wore _**underneath**_ his dress shirts – also accentuated his lean, muscled abs and stomach.

He was talking. Bree forced herself away from her leisurely perusal, hoping that he hadn't noticed. If he had, thankfully, he didn't give any indication of it.

"Somehow, I honestly can't see you, er, 'chewing the fat'?" Mike admitted, eyebrow still lifted. "It's too … disgusting-sounding to actually be something you'd do."

Bree knew that he was teasing her, but it rankled her just a little that he would feel so comfortable around her, so friendly already. He'd just come over to look at her clogged sink, after all, and here he was, already making jokes at her expense! He didn't know anything about her, or her life; he couldn't possibly understand what she'd been through lately – he was just a flippant, rude, _**plumber**!_

This entire parade of thoughts flashed through her mind in less than a second, and then she reigned herself in abruptly. Her emotions had been on such a roller-coaster ride lately; she needed that drink _**now**_.

"Shall I pour?" she asked brightly.

Mike looked hesitant. "I should really go," he said slowly, though there was reluctance in his voice. Bree caught it and seized the opportunity presented. She might have been momentarily offended by his cheek, but she wanted even less to be lonely tonight.

"Please. Mike. I would really appreciate your company this evening. The house is so huge and empty when everyone is away, and I just … " Bree trailed off uncertainly.

Mike regarded her kindly. "How about I pour?" he offered.

Bree sighed in relief. "Thank you, that would be wonderful. Just let me get another glass." Bree opened the cupboard that housed her "drinking" glasses, and started in surprise when she saw that it was empty. "Oh," she said smally, hastily closing the cupboard door and reaching instead for the dishwasher handle. She pulled at the rack of clean dishes, and noticed that, if possible, Mike's eyebrow shot upward even further when he realized at the same time she did that the entire top rack was filled with wineglasses.

"Dinner party?" he asked curiously.

Bree recovered quickly – she had had plenty of practice recovering her own and her family's gaffes that she had become quite effective at improvising. "Of course," she said brightly. "I just love having dinner parties with … ah … drinking."

Mike nodded slowly, and Bree added defensively, with a false note of cheer, "Well, at least I'm not washing handcuffs anymore,"

Mike looked at Bree.

Bree looked at Mike.

Her face drained slowly, leaving her even paler than usual. After a moment of awkward silence, Mike said carefully, "I think I should probably go now, maybe take a raincheck on that drink, okay?"

Bree nodded quickly, relief washing a little color back into her strong features. "Yes, I think that's fine. Here, let me show you out."

After the door had closed behind Mike, Bree leaned against it heavily, sighing. _That did not go well at all,_ she reflected wearily. She knew that when she took a moment to think about it, she would be hugely embarrassed at her slip, but for right now, she decided the best course of action was to immerse herself in some well-deserved comfort.

Even if she had to do it alone.


	4. Brewing Tea and Trouble

A/N: Thank you so much to the kind reviewers who've said that Bree is spot on in this fic. It's funny … I had been intending to write this veering away into Mike/Susan at the end, but I'm definitely listing toward Bree/Mike. It's so much fun. :-) Maybe I'll write two endings … hehe.

Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review – I'm so grateful for them, and I do appreciate the time it takes.

The plot thickens... er, I think.

Perfect

By: Syn

Chapter Four: Brewing Tea and Trouble

The following evening, Mike was surprised and just a bit hopeful when someone knocked quietly on his front door, but then shook his head, amused, when he realized that the thought that had flashed through his mind was that the knock was far too timid to be Susan's usual I'm-knocking-to-be-polite-but-I'm-coming-in-anyway excited rap. They knew each other so well in some ways, and apparently not at all in others:

Karl.

Mike snorted in disgust. Smug bastard drove him crazy.

Mike wriggled his way out of his denim beanbag chair – why did he still have that?? Probably in sullen protest of Susan's wanting to get rid of it – putting down the book he'd been idly thumbing through.

"Coming," he mumbled, dragging a hand through his dark hair and jerking the front door open cautiously. In most cases, visitors to the Delfino residence rarely came with **_his_** well-being in mind.

To his surprise, Bree stood on the wide porch, tightly clenching a covered basket and shifting nervously.

"Bree," he greeted, trying a smile even as he felt his eyebrow lift automatically. He hoped a smile would reassure her that she needn't feel awkward after last night's slip-up, but from the uncomfortably pinched expression on her face and her white-knuckled grip on the basket, he could tell that it didn't help. He couldn't blame her; he didn't feel much like smiling, and it had probably turned out as a grimace.

She smiled at him a little too cheerfully, immediately thrusting the basket toward him, which he took without thinking.

Her hand lingered just a second on his before Bree withdrew it hastily. "Mike, hello," she said quickly, "I just wanted to apologize."

She held up a slim hand immediately to forestall any forthcoming protest. "No, it was just rude of me to rush you off so quickly, without even paying you for your services. I've included a check inside this basket, which contains a freshly baked cherry pie, and also some homemade muffins you might like for breakfast."

Mike shifted uncomfortably. In truth, he was grateful she'd been so thoughtful as to pay him – he was renting the Simms' house at a great rate because he was also renovating it, but he could hardly afford to turn down paid work when it came his way. He'd returned any money Noah had lent him once Deirdre's body had been found; he'd certainly needed the cash more than the old man, but he couldn't stand to touch or even look at any reminders of Deirdre, and he sure as hell didn't want to be indebted to Noah. And he'd hate to tick Kendra off by spending any more of her inheritance.

Mike forced himself back to the present: Bree was regarding him quizzically, with that painfully tight smile stretched across her perfectly painted lips.

"Thank you, Bree, I appreciate it," he answered quietly, and he meant it. Her grateful smile reflected genuinely in her grey eyes, and Mike felt his own tense smile ease just a bit. They stood peacefully on the porch for a moment, both unsure of the present company but neither of them really wanting to leave. Both of their worlds had been so **_empty_** lately.

"Well, I should go pack Danielle's lunch for tomorrow," Bree said, and at the same time Mike offered,

"I was just about to put some water on for tea. Would you like some?"

This time, Bree's eyebrows shot up. "You drink tea? I wouldn't have expected that at all."

Mike laughed shortly. He almost felt like he should be offended, but she'd insulted his supposed level of sophistication so innocently and disarmingly, he couldn't bring himself to be irritated at her. "My wife got me into the habit," he admitted ruefully. "She used to get these awful migraines and couldn't drink coffee because of the caffeine. So I quit as a show of support."

"Oh," Bree replied, looking confused. "I didn't realize that you were married before…?"

Mike gestured for Bree to precede him inside, which she did, either succumbing to curiosity or loneliness, he wasn't sure. He happened to glance up as he pulled the screen door closed, and saw Susan standing at the end of her driveway with Lynette Scavo, staring at him over Lynette's shoulder with an unreadable expression on her face. He shot her a tense smile and followed Bree back inside.

He led the redhead to the kitchen, watching surreptitiously as she glanced around inquisitively before seating herself carefully at the kitchen table. He was grateful that he'd cleaned up a bit earlier, and found himself wondering idly if he met her standards for cleanliness.

Shrugging, Mike filled the kettle with water and set it on the stovetop, continuing aloud slowly, "Yeah, when we lived in LA, before I moved here."

"Oh. Do you still talk to her?" Bree questioned, still glancing around absently.

Mike's eyebrow lifted. "Uh, yeah, sort of." He turned his back to Bree and busied himself collecting two mugs and dropping tea bags into them. "Elise, um, passed away about four years ago."

Bree had been twisting her fingers nervously up until this point, but she actually started in surprise at his words. "Oh. I'm … so sorry. I didn't realize… you seem too … young to be a widower."

Mike smiled humorously. "I am," he agreed, reaching down to absently scratch Bongo's ears as the German Shepherd sidled up to him, brushing against Mike's long legs in greeting. "Actually, Bongo was Elise's dog. When she died, I wanted to give him away, but … I couldn't." The curious tightness that had banded around his heart lately eased just a little bit, surprising him enough to continue, "She made me promise to take care of him. Actually," Mike set a steaming mug down in front of Bree and wrapped his callused hands around his own hot drink gratefully. "Bongo was in the car with her when the accident happened, got hurt pretty bad. The vet wanted to put him down, but I couldn't let her, especially after Elise …" he trailed off slowly, and flashed Bree a weak grin.

She put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I had no idea."

"It's not exactly common knowledge around here," Mike concurred.

"Does … does Susan know?" Bree asked hesitantly.

"Um, no," Mike replied honestly, "she doesn't. Usually when …past… spouses come up, Karl takes center stage pretty loudly."

"He is a buffoon, isn't he?" Bree agreed, and he wasn't sure whether he was more surprised by her choice of wording, or the fact that she had offered her opinion so readily.

"Actually, I was referring the volume of Susan's complaints," Mike grinned. "But you have no idea how glad I am to know that I'm not the only one who thinks the guy's a jerk."

"Oh, please," Bree laughed; she was trying for a lighter tone, and he appreciated the kindness behind her gesture. "All of the girls think so, except of course Edie and, well, Susan, lately," she added apologetically.

He waved it off. "It's okay. She's pretty obviously decided that she doesn't want to be with me, so I really can't offer an opinion on her current choices." He paused, then ventured, "So … is she really back with Karl again?"

Bree paused before she answered to sip her tea, stalling maybe, her eyes closing as she inhaled the warm fragrance before carefully drinking. The hot drink was soothing, sliding down her throat and warming the cold inside in a way entirely different from the alcohol she'd been numbing herself with lately.

She noticed that her hand still rested on Mike's arm, but she didn't move it away.


	5. The Plot Thickens

Yay! Thanks for the reviews! They are so welcome. :D

Perfect

By Syntyche

Chapter Five: The Plot Thickens

_Mike Delfino was used to being on his own. _

_From an early age, Mike had learned that those he cared about often left him, and after time he began to blame himself for it. After all, how could he not?_

_When he was ten, his beloved puppy, Edgar, ran away – at least, that's what Mike's father had told him. At the time, Mike had been too young to correlate Edgar's disappearance with his father's disappointment in Mike's lack of interest in sports – Mike had always preferred adventuring with Edgar instead of focusing on his catching._

_When Mike was twenty-two, he met Deirdre Taylor. She was fun and full of life – and also, he found out, addicted to heroin. At her urging, he'd tried it, but hated the loss of control and kicked the habit. Deirdre, unfortunately, was not as willing to give up her favorite vice, and continued on until it led her to a very dark place. Mike thought he could save her by taking the blame for the officer's death, but he couldn't; Deirdre disappeared while he was in prison – only, he had learned years later, to be murdered by Mary Alice Young on quiet Wisteria Lane. _

_When Mike was thirty-one, he met Elise. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. Every touch, he savored; every look, he tucked away in his heart. She became his world, and for five and a half years, they were happy, and he never walked past her without a second glance and a warm touch._

_Elise was killed by a drunk driver three weeks before their sixth wedding anniversary._

_When Mike was thirty-nine, he moved to Wisteria Lane in the hopes of finding Deirdre and redeeming some small part of his guilty soul, but he'd been too late to save her, too late, really, to do anything but mourn the girl he had loved._

_He had, however, met someone else. Someone who brightened his days and warmed his lonely nights. And then, like so many others he had loved, she was gone. It was his fault, he knew it, and he wanted to forgive her, but she had moved on, leaving him alone again._

* * *

Mike was looking at her expectantly, the barest hint of hurt in his bright eyes. He had to ask the question that had been burning in his mind since he'd, well, assaulted Edie's private investigator.

"So … is she really back with Karl again?"

Bree stalled, sipping her tea, appreciating its warmth, before offering lightly, "I really don't know, Mike." She was trying to let him down gently but he said nothing, letting the silence grow until Bree finally felt compelled to add carelessly, "To be perfectly honest, none of us girls have spent much time together lately, we've been so caught up in our own lives; Lynette with her job, Gaby and Carlos … we really haven't even gotten together for poker lately, when we used to get together every week." She stopped abruptly, realizing that she was speaking to fill the silence, and offered him a somewhat weak smile by way of apology.

"I see," Mike replied neutrally, and fell silent again. Bree watched him quietly as he sat lost in thought, and then he surprised her by dropping his head into his hands and knuckling his eyes roughly.

"God, I'm a mess," he breathed, shaking his head. Spikes of his dark hair spilled through his splayed fingers, and it looked so soft that Bree found herself wanting to reach over and card her fingers through the short strands. Mike seemed to catch himself, though, before she could get there and his head lifted abruptly, an apologetic smile twisted wryly on his face.

"Sorry," he said softly, a half-smile gracing his lips. To Bree it seemed that it was tinged with bitterness, and she felt a little of the cold that was clenching her heart lessen. Bree had always found a measure of peace in helping those she considered less fortunate than herself, and as she regarded the man before her quietly, she wondered why she felt compelled to help him. Hadn't she been standing nearby and seen Susan running after him, heard Susan's desperate cries for him not to leave her on the street?

Bree's eyes narrowed as she remembered Susan's heartache. "I wouldn't think it would matter to you whether she was with Karl or not," she pointed out archly. To her surprise, Mike's smile only grew more bitter, and a little more of the cold and anger leached away from her soul in a wave of understanding.

"You wouldn't, would you?" he agreed. "And it probably shouldn't. But it does, and it's 'complicated.'" He sounded so hateful when he uttered the last word that Bree actually looked at him in amazement. "Sorry," he tossed off tiredly. "It's just that everything was, apparently, 'complicated' when Susan and I were together – or 'casual.' It just gets so damned old after awhile – you start to wonder when you're both going to grow up and act like the adults you should be."

Bree nodded. "I understand," she agreed solemnly, and she did. Memories of her and Rex trying to one-up each other during their separation floated darkly through her mind. "We just … want to be the one who's right."

"Or make the other person understand," Mike added warily.

"Or manipulate them into doing what we want," Bree sighed. "I'm afraid that whether or not you want to be, you were right: relationships **_are_** complicated." Just thinking of Rex had again tightened the vise around her heart, and Bree suddenly felt that she ought to be going – she had a 'friend' waiting for her at home and she was in desperate need of comfort. Southern Comfort tonight, maybe?

But her curiosity was pricking at her. Bree had a flash of clarity, remembering that she had impetuously asked Mike to look at her bathroom sink and that had brought them here … wherever here was. And the tiniest whisper told her that just a few more moments in another's company was worth putting off – for a very short time – a date with one of her favorite vintages.

So Bree let her curiosity do the talking.

"Mike, what happened with you and Susan? Everyone – ah, including Susan – seemed to think that you were the perfect couple. Why, I'd never seen Susan so happy and glowing as when she was dating you. So what happened with you two?"

Mike frowned, but his eyebrow cocked in a manner that said he wasn't entirely sure himself. "It's a long story. Needless to say, I was … stupid."

"I see," Bree replied slowly. "I … have time." They were the desperate words of a lonely woman, and it surprised even Bree when they slipped out of her mouth. Still, she found that her hand made her way to his and squeezed gently.

"I'm afraid that I don't," Mike returned apologetically, though, so softly she that she might have imagined it, his fingers tightened, feather-light, against hers. "I have to be up early for a job."

"Oh." Bree's disappointment shone clearly on her face. "Of course. I should be going – "

"Hey," Mike reached out a hand to stop her from rising. "That doesn't mean that you have to leave. I just, I don't think that I want to go into it, it's pretty ugly. And I'm sure you have better things to do, like, um, windex or polish your silver – pretty much anything is better I'm sure than listening to my problems."

Oh, but that 'polishing silver' comment hurt, much more than it should. Bree felt startled tears prick in her eyes, and all she could think was that it had been far, far too long since her last drink.

"I.. I have to go," she said quickly, rising so abruptly that she knocked her mug over. It was a testament to how angry and hurt that she felt that she didn't even give the spill spreading rapidly across the table another thought.

"I'm sorry? Bree?" Mike questioned worriedly, and he looked so confused that she just wanted to hurt him, like he'd hurt her – whether he meant to or not.

She faced him coldly, allowing her anger to harden her eyes and draw her forehead into a thin, straight line. "I was polishing silver when the doctor called to tell me that my husband had died, Mister Delfino. As you can imagine, it's no longer a pleasant chore for me!" She tried to end it on a hard, sickeningly bright note, and a tiny part of her cheered when she saw his face fall. Vindicated!

"God, I'm sorry," he breathed, "I had no idea."

"Well, I prefer to keep my private affairs private, thank you," she continued, exhausted tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Bree tried to draw from the inner core of strength she'd always relied on under duress, but found it surprisingly empty; probably because she'd been drowning her sorrows with quickly-emptied bottles of wine these days. The analytical, Perfect Housewife part of her mind was telling she needed to get out of here, go home, be alone, but there was another part, long buried, that quietly whispered that it was okay to let the hurt out.

She ignored that voice, of course.

"If you'll excuse me," she said haughtily, shouldering her way past the surprised plumber.

She didn't make it very far, however. As she passed Mike, his hand came up to rest on her shoulder, halting her forward movement.

"Bree," he said softly, "I didn't know. I'm sorry." His bright, concerned eyes stared into hers, and then narrowed as he surveyed her. "Sit down," he said, and it wasn't a suggestion. He led her to the worn couch and pressed her down until she sat, blinking furiously to keep her raging emotions at bay and trying to keep her confident mask from slipping. She didn't know why she didn't argue, didn't just barrel her way out the door; she just sat, numbly, as he'd told her to.

Mike left the room and she could hear him moving around in the kitchen for a few minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a second mug of tea, which he handed her silently.

"Do you have anything stronger?" she asked quietly, dryly, and hated the underlying desperation that blazed through in her voice.

"I don't think you need it," Mike answered honestly, and it irritated her, but before she could think of something sharp to say, he had seated himself beside her on the couch, far enough away to be polite, but close enough that she could smell the scent of soap on his skin. It made her distinctly heady in the way that cleanliness often did.

Mike's eyes met hers, and she was startled by the depth of naked honestly that shone through them.

"Bree," he began slowly, "I moved to Wisteria Lane because I was looking for someone… "

_Yes, Mike Delfino was used to being cynical and alone. _

_Tonight, however, that was not to be his fate._


	6. Telling Tales

Thank you for the kind comments and reviews! Cheer! I wouldn't withhold chapters because of lack of reviews, but they definitely help speed things along. And they help me figure out which direction I'm going. ;-)

Perfect

By: Syn

Chapter Six: Telling Tales

"Her name was Deirdre," Mike continued quietly, and he watched Bree carefully as he spoke, looking for ... what, he wasn't sure. Understanding? Blame? Boredom? "I don't know how much you know," he admitted dryly, "but I suspect you're not completely naïve about what happened with Mary Alice, and Zach."

Bree smiled, but there was only gentleness in the soft purse of her lips. She seemed to have gotten over her initial surprise at being practically forced to sit, and had apparently decided that sitting with him wasn't so bad, despite his slip-up about the silver. He could be such an ass sometimes.

Oh. Right. That was why he was alone again.

"I know some," Bree agreed guardedly. "I know that Zach is your son."

Mike cringed, though he knew he shouldn't be surprised that if Susan knew, so did her entire circle of friends. Hell, **_Karl_** probably even knew. Still, he sighed, "No secrets on this street, are there?"

"No, sweetie, there aren't," Bree conceded ruefully. "It's one of the perils of living in suburbia, I guess – or at least on Wisteria Lane. I would surmise, however," she concluded thoughtfully, "that our street is somewhat … busier than most."

"Oh?" Mike felt his eyebrow quirk and frowned. Sometimes, he was damned convinced that his right eyebrow was completely on its own, jumping up practically every time he turned around and making him look perpetually skeptical. Which he was, really, so that might explain it.

Bewildered, Mike shook off his train of thought; it was just weird, one of those stray male deliberations that wandered through his brain at the oddest moments. "Uh, was it this crazy before I moved here?"

"Hmm," Bree winced as she considered, but her face brightened as she hit on a reply. "Well, it was a bit of a shock for us all when Gaby and Carlos moved in – none of us were used to such, uh, **_public_** displays of affection."

Mike laughed, a sound that slipped amazingly easily from his lips. Just from the few instances he'd talked with the Solises', he could definitely see Bree's point. "Uh, yeah. I get that."

"Not as much violence, though," Bree added blithely. "Sure, there was the occasional screaming match between Susan and Karl, or there was the time that Ida Greenberg drunkenly drove her car across the Scavos' front lawn, but I don't think the shootings and brawling started up until after you moved in."

A pained half-smile flitted across the plumber's face when Bree mentioned Susan and Karl, but he agreed gamely, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that I'm responsible for a lot of that, somehow."

"Well, you do seem to get into an awful lot of fistfights with the men on our street, if nothing else," Bree pointed out, and Mike nodded apologetically.

"I can't seem to help it. It's mostly just Karl; no one else I've ever met just says 'hit me' the way he does." That elicited a tiny smile from Bree, which she subtly covered by lifting her mug to her lips. "My temper has been kinda frayed since I moved here. It's not an excuse, really, it just seems to be the way it is."

"Well, I believe we're all responsible for our behavior, but you have been under considerable amounts of stress lately," Bree soothed.

Mike shrugged. "So has Susan, and Zach … and you, if I'm not mistaken."

Bree smiled glibly. "Actually, I believe you were telling me why **_you'd_** come to Wisteria Lane. My _**perceived** _problems hadn't even come up."

"Of course. Would you like a refill?" he asked politely.

"Are you changing the subject?" Bree queried slyly.

Mike grinned. "Not at all." His smile softened, but hints of pain shone in his bright eyes. "I wouldn't brush you off, Bree, not tonight," His hand moved – he was pretty sure that it was taking the hint from his right eyebrow and doing it on its own – until he found that it rested lightly on her thigh. He wanted to say more, but the words died on his lips when he realized that he wasn't sure what else he could say – what else he wanted to say.

"And what makes tonight special?" Bree asked warily.

Mike shrugged slowly. "Tonight isn't any more special than any other night – but I wouldn't leave you on any other night, either."

"Oh." Bree looked slightly uncomfortable, so he added quickly,

"Don't misunderstand me, Bree. Losing someone – especially someone so close to you – it … does things to you." He added frankly, "You'd think it would make you appreciate life more, but it really doesn't."

Bree swallowed hard. "It makes you question …everything."

"Especially yourself," Mike sighed in agreement. "Like what you did to deserve it."

"And wondering what they really thought of you." A sudden memory twisted Bree's full lips into a sneer that rested uncomfortably on her mouth like it wasn't sure what to do there. "My husband thought I murdered him!" she announced distastefully.

There was a pause, and then Mike said smally, "Oh?"

"Yes!" Bree found herself warming to her topic. "It was actually George, though – our pharmacist! Apparently, he thought that with Rex out of the way, I would marry him. Which I almost did! Fortunately," she conceded blithely, "he committed suicide before I made **_that_** mistake."

"Wow," Mike murmured. "You have been through a lot."

Bree looked surprised that he would come to that conclusion. "No, not really," she said brightly, and Mike frowned.

"You know, for a minute there you were actually telling the truth," he reproved gently.

"Are you **_reprimanding_** me?" Bree sounded so scandalized he almost smiled.

"Yes," he said bluntly.

For an instant she looked even more offended, but her outrage quickly faded. "Oh." She proffered her empty mug a little shyly. "In that case, I think I would like a refill."

Mike grinned. "Uh-huh." He took the mug from her fingers. It was so not right to ask, but she'd piqued his curiosity. "So, Rex really thought you killed him?"

Fortunately, Bree was more irritated by that thought than his question. "Yes! It seems that George was poisoning him and Rex's cardiologist thought that **_I_** was responsible. Rex left a note that said he **_understands_** and he **_forgives _**me." The sneer was back on her pretty face, making her seem cold and hard. Mike was pretty sure that she was justified – he couldn't imagine the heartache he would carry if he'd discovered that Elise had died believing that he'd been unfaithful and he had murdered her.

"Wow," he said again.

Bree smiled tightly, clearly still ruffled. "I appreciate your sympathy, thank you."

"Have **_you_** forgiven him?" Mike asked suddenly.

"I beg your pardon??" If Bree got any more offended tonight, Mike reflected, she'd probably have an aneurysm.

He rose, a little stiffly, and stretched carefully. "Sorry, not my business. Let me get you some more tea."

"Actually, Mike, I really should be going." She still seemed miffed, though, and he had a feeling that was actually the reason for her leaving. He settled onto the arm of the couch and met her grey eyes levelly.

"You know," he said softly, "you asked me earlier if I still talk to Elise. I do. Maybe you should try talking to Rex – it might make you feel better."

Bree sniffed, still irate. "What a ridiculous idea! I have no desire to speak to my late husband at all! Clearly, he wasn't the man I thought he was."

Mike raised in hands in surrender. "Okay. But it wouldn't hurt you to try. Would you like me to walk you home?"

"Can I take a raincheck on your story?" Bree asked shyly. "I'd like to hear it."

"Sure, if you'd like." Jokingly, he proffered his elbow, but she took it and pulled herself upright.

"Thank you, Mike," she said quietly.

"Absolutely," he answered with a smile, gesturing for her to precede him out the front door. The night was warm, and the moon was out, and they unconsciously meandered just a bit as they wandered back to the Van de Kamp home.

"The moon is beautiful, isn't it?" Bree breathed dreamily. "I love this time of year, the warm nights, the way the moon shines on my hydrangeas… it's so calm, so peaceful."

"It is nice. I need to bring Bongo out for a walk yet tonight." They stopped outside Bree's door and she reluctantly pulled her arm from the crook of his elbow and turned to face her unexpected friend.

"Thank you, Mike, for taking the time to talk to me tonight. It's been so … strange lately, with everything that's happened."

"I know. Me too," Mike confessed. "It's funny, I keep thinking to myself, 'well, next year will be great', and 'this time it's going to work,' or 'I'm not gonna act so rashly next time.'" He shook his head with a sigh. "Or maybe just that tomorrow will be better than today. I'd be happy just for that." He smiled ruefully at her and turned to leave. "Good night, Bree."

Bree watched him go, saw the tight set of his shoulders beneath the taut stretch of his t-shirt. "Good night, Mike. I'll … speak with you later."

He threw her a look over his shoulder. "Say hi to Rex for me," he joked.

* * *

At two forty-six that morning, Bree awoke from a nightmare in which she returned home due to an urgent call from her son, only to find Andrew tangled up in her bedsheets and Peter emerging from the bathroom. This image coalesced into Andrew's face, horrified and disbelieving in her rearview mirror, as she drove away and left him to fend for himself in a world that owed him nothing. 

She wished that she had only imagined the entire gruesome parade, but the images that flashed through her mind were all real, all so close to the surface that if she opened her eyes she felt as though she could touch them.

Bree lay in bed a few moments more, trying to fall asleep again but knowing that she really didn't want to. Wearily, she pushed the covers aside and pulled on her robe as she quietly made her down to the kitchen. Gratefully she retrieved a wineglass from the cupboard and poured herself a full glass of chilled chardonnay.

Sinking down at the table, Bree knew that she didn't want to sleep anymore tonight; Andrew's unsure face floated into view every time her thoughts drifted, and once that door was open, so many other images all crowded to be first through her mind, accusing, tormenting, and berating her, refusing to release their firm grip and reminding her that deep down, when the world was quiet and the last dish had been washed, the last towel folded, she was alone.

Until a new memory caressed her tired mind.

_I wouldn't brush you off, Bree, not tonight_, he'd said.

And what made tonight special?

_I wouldn't leave you on any other night, either._

Before rational thought kicked in and she could actually think about what she was doing – and stop herself – Bree was looking through her book of addresses, her slim fingers triumphantly emerging with Mike Delfino's business card, left behind when he'd been over the previous night to look at the bathroom sink.

Her hand shaking, she quickly dialed his number, her smile fondly victorious when his sleep-fogged voice answered on the end of the line.

"Mike? It's Bree Van de Kamp – I apologize that it's so late – no, it's not an emergency; well, not really. I just … was wondering if you could come by." She hesitated. "Please."

And so it was that at three sixteen that morning, a sleepy Mike Delfino wandered across the street and was let into the Van de Kamp home by a properly dressed and made up Bree, and by three fifty-seven they were both asleep on the couch, her head pillowed on his shoulder, having fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of the horribly cheesy monster flick _Godzilla vs. Megalon, _a bowl of now-cold popcorn still grasped firmly in Bree's hands, as though even in her sleep, she was determined to keep the bowl from tipping over and spilling popcorn kernels onto her clean floor.


	7. I Know Things Now

I just want to again thank so much everyone who has taken a minute to review this fic, and especially the wonderfully faithful readers who leave multiple reviews – it's so funny, it was supposed to be a one-shot deal, but everyone's comments and suggestions have grown this story to the point where it is now seven chapters long and we haven't even gotten to the action yet. (grin) DH is uncharted waters for me, so I am so grateful for the kindness of the reviewers, especially since this is such an odd pairing. Thank you!!!

A/N: Just to reiterate, the story veers off right near the end of the ep "I Know Things Now," after Bree drops off Andrew. Edie hasn't burned down the Mayers' house – at least, not yet. I forgot both of those things happened in the same episode. (blush) The story becomes AU from there; the remaining storylines from season two will either be referenced or ignored entirely.

Bree **_has_** dropped Andrew off wherevers, but I've moved back the scene where Mike confronts Susan with the PI. That actually happens in this chapter, so I wanted to be clear where the story is at; I want the official timeline to correlate with the fic while freely admitting that I've screwed with the timeline. ;-) This chapter is somewhat long; I don't know why. :-P

* * *

Chapter Seven: I Know Things Now (That I Wish I'd Known Before) 

Bree awoke the next morning on the couch with that weird fuzziness in her brain and a stiffness in her slender back that reminded her that not only was she not in her own bed, she wasn't in a bed at all. She was lying somewhat awkwardly on her living room couch, covered to the chin in a thick, red-checkered quilt that had been previously draped over the recliner.

Bree fingered the quilt absently. She had always kept spare blankets in the hall closet unless needed. This quilt, however, had been Rex's, first while he slept on the sofa bed that she had intentionally destroyed to drive him back to their bedroom (though she'd only managed to send him packing to a disgusting motel; probably no one there would have even **_noticed_** a cheese stain on the carpet. Repulsive savages.)

When he'd come home after his first heart attack, Rex had kept the quilt on the back of the sofa so he could curl up under it while doing his crossword puzzles, or, as he did some nights, just watch his wife concentrating intently on both her needlework and just as keenly on ignoring him.

After Rex had died, she couldn't seem to pack the quilt away. It was the last tangible, visible reminder of her husband that she had left out, apart from their wedding picture. The picture remained out for her family, out of duty and also because she felt that a wedding picture was the consummate finishing touch for any respectable household; hers was resolutely displayed on the front table in the entry foyer, ready to welcome any guest to the Van de Kamp home.

The quilt … well, she couldn't explain that, which surprised her, because she knew that she was quite talented at explaining things away to herself so that she believed them. For Rex's quilt, though, nothing had yet sprung to mind; so she simply continued to arrange it over the chair as tastefully as she could, considering that it came awfully close to clashing with her living room theme of "neat and neutral." She'd grabbed the blanket last night without thinking when she'd curled up next to …

Oh.

It didn't escape her that, even on the couch she'd purchased more for the look than its actual comfort, she had slept quietly after Mike Delfino had arrived. They'd found a horrible movie on late-night cable and she'd just drifted off, pillowed against the firm muscles of his bicep, feeling strangely safe. For the first time since the long drive up the mountain, she didn't see Andrew's face when she closed her eyes. He'd left this morning without waking her, however; she wondered what he must think of her weakness. Should she be embarrassed? Should she apologize?

"I don't have time for things to be complicated," she sighed softly. She wondered how people like Susan could handle the seemingly constant chaos that enveloped them, how people could live in such a disorderly fashion and still stay sane. Without a stiff drink, anyway.

Thinking of Susan reminded her again of Mike, and that thought brought a gentle curve to her lips. She could just imagine the muscles of his arm tightening under her hand, and the feel of his calloused fingers wrapping around hers loosely. Rex's hands had been so soft, so precise; she wondered how it would feel to have those rough hands sliding over her skin …

Bree blinked suddenly, blushing and struggling to bring herself back to the moment – after all, she had to make breakfast, and there were errands to run, she had to pick up Danielle later … and she was daydreaming about the neighborhood plumber?? What would Susan say if she ever found out?

Dear Lord, what would Rex have said?

Feeling strangely guilty, Bree banished all thoughts of Mike from her mind, automatically pulling the quilt closer and inhaling deeply. It still smelled faintly of her late husband's favorite cologne; Bree closed her eyes for a moment, completely still, and just breathed. She thought about how much she'd loved Rex, thought about ironing and laying out his clothing every night, and hours spent in the kitchen preparing the exquisite cuisine he deserved.

_Clearly_, she reflected acidly, _he was more interested in dessert._

Her eyes flew open and her expression twisted angrily, the familiar anger slowly rising as it filled more of the emptiness in her soul from her husband's painful betrayal – not his indiscretion with the neighborhood whore, no, but those six little words in that handwriting that had once written countless love letters bearing her name:

_I understand and I forgive you._

"Well, I do **_not_** forgive you!" she hissed vehemently, throwing the quilt back from her face and rising determinedly to her feet. She snatched the quilt, balled it up, threw it in the hall closet and smacked the door shut. "I **_will_** **_not_** forgive you!" she shouted at the closed door and the token of her husband behind it. Bree stalked toward the kitchen, seething angrily.

After a moment, she stomped back to the closet, yanked the door open, pulled Rex's quilt out, and folded it neatly before setting it carefully atop the orderly stack of blankets tucked away on the bottommost shelf.

"Just because I can't forgive you doesn't give you license to be a slob, dear," she said, sweetly saccharine, patting the blanket condescendingly.

Then she slammed the closet door and stamped back into the kitchen to make breakfast.

* * *

Susan Mayer lived in a state of perpetual confusion. 

She accepted this with a smile and the firm belief that one day, things would work out and she would curl up every night beside the Man of Her Dreams.

Only, he wouldn't be in her dreams anymore, he would actually be beside her – that was the good part.

Whoever he was.

It was so easy to think that she knew, but not only had Susan been surprised by some of the men who had flitted through her life – she'd been damn near blindsided by a few of them, too! Her old friend and publisher Lonnie's shocking declaration of love immediately sprung to mind, but Karl also hovered in the background like a – well, saying he hovered like mosquito didn't really fit her image of Karl; he was more like a hulking ape, and she wished that she could sort out how she really felt about him. Despite his awful lies and the fact that he'd cheated on Edie **_with her_** didn't make Susan as angry as she felt it probably should. She would probably always have a soft spot for her husband/ex-husband/husband/soon-to-be-ex-husband in her heart.

She still felt in her soul that somehow, Mike was the One – end of story. Period!

She wished.

Susan twisted a long strand of auburn hair around her fingers nervously. She did believe that .. but she also knew that he was still upset about her sending Zach away, angrier, probably, than she was at him for fighting with Ron.

Mike had tried, she knew, to smooth things over, but Ron had called at the time, and truthfully, because Mike wasn't offering her the elaborate apology she felt owed, she wanted to punish him, wanted to hurt him like she'd been devastated when he'd left her crying in the street. She'd brushed him off coldly, believing with all her heart that Ron had called her back to offer her another chance.

He hadn't.

And then – to see Ron with Edie, his accusing glare shaming her even as she and Karl had scurried out the door to avoid being showered with the broken shards of the vase Edie had chucked at them.

No, it simply wasn't that easy at all.

Susan stared out her kitchen window at Mike's house, noting that his truck hadn't been in the driveway this morning. Her gaze traveled to his front door as she remembered that just last night she'd seen Bree of all people entering Mike's house. What business her friend had with her ex-boyfriend Susan couldn't even begin to guess.

… but, then, there was no reason that she couldn't find out, was there?

It was Susan's way of thinking that you never let a little thing like manners get in the way of your curiosity: breaking and entering the Youngs' house, going out with one of Edie's builders after the blonde had firmly told her no, various minor indiscretions; no, Susan refused to be dissuaded when in pursuit of a goal. After all, if she had been easily put off, they may never have found what had really happened with Mary Alice.

So Susan decided to indulge her curiosity and find out what her plumber was up to these days, now that he wasn't spending them with her.

Susan always felt so … unpolished when she was around the perfectly-groomed, pretty much just perfect Bree, so she finger-combed her hair into a smooth ponytail and brushed an imaginary wrinkle out of her brown corduroys. The entire short walk to Bree's house she tried to think of some excuse, some reason for inquiring about the redhead's visit to Mike's last night, but she couldn't come up with anything.

That didn't deter her, however; she simply knocked on Bree's door and hoped for the best, smiling widely at her friend when she answered. The dark circles under Bree's tired eyes didn't escape Susan's notice; Bree never looked tired -- maybe she'd had a very **_busy _**night?

"Hi!" Susan said brightly.

"Susan, hello," Bree said warmly, but Susan could swear that there was a distinct note of guilt in Bree's voice. It made the brunette nervous, as if all this time she'd just been joking to herself about Mike and Bree being together, but now was faced with the actual prospect of it being a horrible reality.

"So, uh, nothing really," Susan began, swallowing hard, "but, um, listen, I saw you go into Mike's house last night and I was just sort of wondering what that was about."

Bree's guilty glance intensified, but she looked at Susan in wide-eyed surprise. "I beg your pardon?" she asked politely.

"Oh, you know," Susan ran a hand through her hair, laughing lightly. "I guess that I was just maybe a little **_concerned_** that you would go over there, you know, because rumors spread so fast on this street and I know you're always careful with your reputation … " she trailed off airily.

"Susan," Bree said abruptly, "is Mike still your … " her face creased as she considered, settling carefully on, "significant other?"

This really wasn't going the way Susan had imagined; by now she and Bree were supposed to be sharing a cup of coffee in Bree's kitchen and laughing together over Susan's crazy misunderstanding. "Uh," she hedged, "well, we certainly have our issues to work through, but I … "

"Yes, or no?" Bree interjected; not rudely, just pointedly.

Susan frowned regardless. "Well, no, not at the moment," she admitted.

"All right then," Bree smiled her Perfect Housewife smile, the one that said that all was right in her world and she was just waiting for everyone else to catch up. "Then I don't see why it would matter to you in the slightest. I really have to run, Susan – I promised Danielle that I would drop her off at the mall after school."

The door closed gently in her face, and Susan reflected that her afternoon had gone decidedly downhill. Little did she suspect that her evening would turn out to be far worse.

* * *

Mike Delfino was startled by a knock at the door, and even more surprised when his guest turned out to be the PI Edie had hired to watch Karl. The thought that the guy was probably back to press assault charges crossed Mike's mind and he frowned. 

"Hi, I didn't get a chance to introduce myself before you clobbered me: Oliver Weston," the PI announced curtly but quickly, Mike's irritated look rattling him just a little. He rubbed his jaw gently in reminder of where Mike's fist had impacted with it earlier. "You mind if I come in?"

"Actually, I kind of do," Mike averred wryly, eyebrow arching.

"Trust me," Weston sniffed. "You'll want to hear what I have to say."

Sighing resignedly, Mike jerked the door open fully and nodded the man in. Weston immediately went to the dining table and plunked his briefcase down, fumbling with the locks.

"Now," he began without preamble, "I know a lot of guys like you."

"I doubt that," Mike murmured, but the PI waved his hand sharply.

"You'd be surprised. You think that there's no way the woman you love could ever cheat on you, you're so freakin' naïve. You'd never hire a guy like me; it wouldn't even cross your mind."

"You came about Susan?" Mike said flatly, not bothering to wait for Weston's affirmation. "I think you'd better leave."

"And I think you'd better listen," Weston responded shortly, triumphantly getting his battered briefcase unlatched and producing a tiny tape recorder. He pressed the play button and Mike shifted uncomfortably when Susan's tinny voice sounded over the small speaker:

_"Karl, just stop."_ Well, that was nothing new.

"_You said yourself: the sex last week was the best you ever had,"_ answered Karl's smug voice, and Mike felt the blood drain slowly from his face. She'd actually done it. She'd actually messed around, actually **_slept_** with that bastard. Damn, she was quick into bed.

His stomach felt like it had twisted itself into a dozen knots. "Why are you here?" he demanded dazedly.

Weston smiled, cynicism tracing his mouth into a thin line. "Revenge?" he suggested seriously, tapping his jaw lightly. "You hurt me, I repay the favor?"

Mike didn't want to think about the ramifications of how **_he_** felt, so he wisely focused on the more immediate problem. "Edie's going to kill her," he said aloud, and Weston nodded in content agreement.

"Most likely. She definitely seems capable. I've seen her type … "

"Shut up," Mike cut him off crossly as he rubbed a hand across his eyes tiredly. "We should at least give Susan a chance to explain herself. I'm gonna call her and you can play the tape for her, okay?"

Oliver looked at the plumber with a mixture of pity and disgust. "You are a sappy son-of-a-bitch, aren't ya?"

Mike shot him an irritated look as he pressed the speed dial button for Susan. He got her answering machine and left her a brief, pointed message, clicking his phone shut with a short sigh that was directed at Oliver. "Just give her a minute; she's home and probably screening her calls."

"Ah. Experience with this sort of thing already?"

"Shut up," Mike repeated irately.

A few minutes later they heard the click of shoes on the wooden porch steps followed by a quick knock. Mike shot Weston a knowing look and opened the door; Susan stood on his porch looking flustered but curious, and frankly damned cute. Mike almost hated himself for what he was about to do, but the thought that she had been recently intimate with Karl actually made him want to vomit up his cheap fast food dinner.

"Hi," Susan said quickly, more cheerful than concerned. That would probably change. "I got your message. What's up?"

Mike nodded her and introduced her to Oliver Weston, finishing with, ""He thinks you two have been having an affair."

Susan was appropriately shocked. "Me and Karl? Why would you think that?"

Mike watched her face carefully as Oliver played the incriminating recording, and to his disappointment there was only guilt on her pretty face as she listened to the damning conversation between herself and her no-longer ex-husband. Not what Mike had been hoping for.

"You were actually fooling around with Karl behind Edie's back?" he demanded angrily.

"No!" she protested, brown eyes wide. "Karl lied to me! He told me he and Edie split up before … "

He was right. He hated himself for it. "You know what? I don't even care," Mike cut off her objections and yanked the door open roughly.

"Are we done here?" Oliver asked, already finished packing up and probably planning on stopping at Edie's next.

"Yeah," Mike nodded him out and fixed a cold look on his one-time lover. "Good night, Susan," he said firmly, not at all surprised that Susan dashed after Oliver to try and retrieve the tape.

He pulled back the dining room curtain, and sure enough, she was pleading with Weston. Disgusted, Mike let the curtain fall back into place and headed upstairs to shower away the inexplicable feeling of filth Susan's admission of guilt had left clinging to him. Oh God, – there were probably bits of Karl on him somewhere. Gross. Thoroughly nauseated, Mike stripped and stepped into the shower, wishing that the hot water pouring onto him could somehow ease the cold ache in his heart.

* * *

Just as a final note: I do like both Rex and Susan, I just think that at this point both Bree and Mike are harboring a lot of anger towards their respective others. Apologies if I made Susan too flighty. :-) 

Notes to non-registered users:

Lily: I need company! I wish you would write your Bree/Mike fic!

Elizabeth: Thank you, then, for breaking the habit and reviewing the fic. :-D hooray for you!


	8. The Last Calm Before the Storms

Again and as always, thanks so very much for the reviews! Though I've been posting the story as the chapters are ready, there will be days when I log onto ff.n and think, _Okay, if there are any new reviews, I'm totally posting the next chapter today..._ (grin) And today, there was, so I have stayed up far too late to finish and post this chapter. I sincerely hope that the lateness of the hour is not reflected in the content. :-)

* * *

Perfect

By: Syn

Chapter Eight: The Last Calm Before the Storms

_Lynette Scavo loved her husband unconditionally. _

_The only condition to loving her husband unconditionally was that he remained absolutely one-hundred percent faithful to her and their children. That was all she asked, and not, she thought, too unreasonable. _

_Unfortunately, circumstances had newly arisen that caused her to question her husband's fealty. Lynette, in a last attempt to calm her frazzled nerves before she completely lost her reason and simply left her husband based on the information Ed had presented her about Tom's recent trips to Atlantic City, had decided to confide in her friend Bree Van de Kamp, who, sadly, could give her first-hand information about routing out an unfaithful husband…_

Lynette Scavo was nervous, to be sure, but this was her friend of eight years across from her in this tiny coffee shop, determinedly brushing crumbs left by the table's previous occupant into a napkin which she wadded up and delicately disposed of before seating herself across from the blonde. "I really appreciate you making time to come up here during my lunch break, Bree," Lynette began, "but I confess to an ulterior motive."

"I assure you that I have all but given up drinking," Bree interrupted, clearly trying to sound calmer than she was at her perceived direction the conversation was heading. "And I can't thank you enough for your intervention – "

"No, that's not it," Lynette interrupted. "I know you have," she assured gently, "and I'm proud of you." Bree smiled, pleased and surprised, and immediately began organizing the tiny chrome sugar-packet holder, making sure that the sugars were all lined up carefully before even one Nutra-Sweet packet made an appearance. Lynette watched in odd fascination for a moment before shaking her head wryly to clear it. "Bree, can I ask you something?"

Bree, of course, always had advice to dispense and was ready. She looked up from her packet-sorting and focused her full attention on her friend. "Absolutely, Lynette. I'm so wonderfully thrilled to see you that you can ask me anything, you know that."

Lynette reached over to put her hand atop the redhead's, squeezing nervously as she sought strength to voice the horrible doubt that had been weighing on her. "It's Tom. I think … he might be having an affair."

"Lynette!" Bree was shocked; her left hand reached over to cover Lynette's. "How awful for you! Why would you say that?"

"Well," Lynette grimaced, recalling Ed's smug comment that she needed to clean her own house before passing judgment on others – a damnably smartass thing to say, seeing as how the whole mess with Tom had resulted from Ed's ordering Lynette to send those stupid IM's to his wife in an attempt to revive Fran's diminishing passion for her husband.

"It's kind of a long story," Lynette sighed, reluctant to even go into it but knowing that she needed help before she completely lost her sanity. "There's been some problems at work – did you know Tom works at Parcher & Murphy, too? No? Wow, it has been awhile since we've talked. Anyway, I digress," the blonde steered herself back on topic and Bree smiled consolingly. Lynette smiled back and continued, "So our boss Ed hired a forensic account to go through everyone's expense reports … and he found some things a little fishy with Tom's."

"Like what?" Bree still had Lynette's hand in hers, but her fingers were twitching, eager to continue the cleaning she had begun. Lynette, understanding that was simply Bree, gently withdrew her hand to add some creamer to her coffee as she continued.

"Well, apparently Tom's detoured to Atlantic City during a couple of business trips and used the company to pay for it – stupid stuff, like theater tickets, flowers … stuff that shouldn't be on a company card anyway – clearly, Tom and I have different ideas about what exactly the company should pay for – I just don't know, Bree," Lynette released her coffee spoon to twist her small hoop earring nervously as she worried at her lower lip with her teeth. "I hate the thought of suspecting him, but I hate even more being in the dark. I just…" Lynette trailed off helplessly, shrugging.

"You should confront Tom, Lynette, before you do anything rash; at least get his side of the story so you can react appropriately," Bree advised. "Be subtle or blatant, however you think he would respond most honestly."

Lynette considered, and her gaze was frank when she looked at Bree, "How did you know about Rex?"

Bree exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair as if she could distance herself from the memory. "Well, I got a call from the hospital saying that Rex had had a heart attack, and when I got there I discovered that Maisy Gibbons had signed him in."

"Wow," Lynette shook her head. "So all that time **_I_** was having trouble with Maisy at Barcliff, she was banging your husband. And probably everyone else's too," she added, seeing the look on Bree's face.

Bree rolled her eyes. "I know. And Mike actually thinks I should try to forgive Rex, not only for the affair, but also for suspecting me of murdering him!"

"Mike?" Lynette asked, brow furrowing, any interest in the salad before her vanishing as quickly as the remaining time in her lunch break. "Mike, Mike? Susan's Mike?"

"He's not Susan's Mike anymore; she's moved on to Karl, I think," Bree protested loftily, "But yes, Susan's Mike."

"Karl?" Lynette was shaking her head like she couldn't even comprehend, though she did go as far as idly spearing a tomato as she considered Bree's revelation. "Well, wait; what were you doing talking to Mike?"

"Well," Bree explained carefully, "I had a clog in the bathroom sink, so he came over to look at it."

"Oh," Lynette nodded. Nothing unusual, then, that was good.

"And then I brought him some muffins," Bree continued. "As a thank you, you know."

"Uh-huh." Again, nothing unusual.

"And then he came over to watch a horrible movie one night."

Whoah, one second, that was a little more than a follow-up call. "I see." Lynette stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "Does Susan know about this?"

"Well, no. I thought she was back with Karl, or her doctor? I've lost track lately," Bree added wryly, as much a testament to the four friends' lack of time together, as Susan's singular inability to settle with a man.

Lynette sighed, idly twisting the spoon resting lightly against the rim of her coffee mug. "It's been a hell of a year, hasn't it?" One short fingernail tapped gently against the spoon's handle; despite her reentry into the business world, Lynette still hadn't managed to get a proper manicure; Bree wasn't sure if having children prevented that bit of maintenance, or if the irredeemably practical Lynette simply viewed it as a waste of time and money. There was a knowing glint in the blonde's eye as she glanced at Bree. "So, Mike Delfino, huh?"

"Well … " Bree rarely stammered, she merely spent extra time looking for correct phrasing. "I don't know," she confided honestly, and, far from judging her, this time Lynette placed her hand atop Bree's reassuringly.

"Hey, honey, he's a catch to be sure. Although … you do know that he's a **_plumber_**, right?"

"Well, I don't see why that should be held against him," Bree said, surprised – and surprised at herself for saying so. It really hadn't been so long ago that she'd looked down her own nose at the trade profession, or least the dirtier ones. "It's simply nice to spend time with someone," she confessed, "he listens, he's kind – "

"**_And_** he can snake your pipes anytime you need," Lynette pointed out, with **_such_** a wicked gleam in her blue eyes that Bree was immediately scandalized.

"It's not like that!" she protested faintly.

"Hey, hey," Lynette raised her hands in surrender, laughing. "Easy, Bree." She squeezed Bree's hand again. "Just be careful. You've been through a lot lately. Getting involved with Susan's ex-boyfriend … you know if she finds out, she'll go through the roof?"

"We're not **_involved_**," Bree protested dramatically, tossing her hair back over her shoulder and trying to sound casual. "It's just … " Bree leaned forward confidentially. "We have a lot in common. I just like to talk to him, Lynnie."

"Uh-huh." The practicality that Lynette was known – and dreaded for – shone clearly through her pointed gaze. "Are you sure that's all **_he_** wants, Bree?"

Bree sat back in her chair, startled eyes wide. "Oh," she said hesitantly, a frown drawing her brows together worriedly.

"I hadn't thought of that."

* * *

_It was no secret on Wisteria Lane that Susan Mayer was unlucky in life, as well as love. After her painful divorce from Karl, her friends held out in hope that the right man for Susan would come along and sweep her off her feet._

_They had thought that Mike Delfino was perfect for her, and so had she. She and Mike had been through a lot of ups and downs; currently, they'd hit a down slope, though the situation had lately been showing definite signs of improvement, and Susan had again begun to wonder if she and Mike might have a future, even if it was just as friends. _

_Then Mike told her that he'd paid off Edie's private detective, and Susan had realized something even better: _

_Mike still loved her. _

_And she knew that she'd been given another chance to make things right. _

Mike opened the door barely after she'd finished knocking. On occasion, Susan had wondered if he merely lurked around behind his front door, just waiting for visitors. It seemed likely.

"Hi!" she announced brightly, swallowing convulsively past the nervousness clouding her throat. "I made you a pie. And by 'made,' I mean bought." She brushed past him before he could turn her away, or she could lose her nerve. Jeez, he looked good, and she had to tell herself sternly to focus on the present and not the hard body beneath the olive green t-shirt and jeans he wore that clearly favored him; if tonight went according to her plan, she assured herself, she would be able to pay plenty of attention to his body later on.

Susan marched to the kitchen to retrieve silverware and plates, pushing Mike into a chair at the table. "Sit!" she said excitedly, "I brought pie to thank you," she explained, slicing into the perfect crust as Mike watched her carefully.

"So, what exactly are you thanking me for?" he asked curiously.

Susan had been rehearsing her speech carefully for the past two-and-a-half hours and was ready for his question. And everything went fine, she successfully rebutted his dry comments and was confident that she would reach the final stage in her plan wherein their clothing lay tangled in a heap on the bedroom floor, until she announced, "Fine, I'll be the one to break the ice: I never stopped caring about you."

"That why you jumped in bed with Karl?" Mike questioned, and Susan floundered; she hadn't really anticipated that response and her carefully prepared plan started to crumble beneath her.

"I would've never even gone there if I had thought there was a chance with us – " she objected.

"But you did go there, Susan," Mike interrupted, frustrated. "That's the point! If you want to be with him, go! You don't seem to care that he's a liar and cheater, only that he's good in bed!"

"That's not fair!" Susan protested, angry. "You just closed the door so completely, what was I supposed to do?"

"I would think that jumping into bed with your ex-husband wouldn't even be on your list for consideration," Mike answered coldly.

"Why not? I jumped into bed with an ex-convict – how could Karl be any worse?"

The minute she said it, Susan knew it was a mistake.

"Fine," Mike said tightly, jaw twitching. "You're absolutely right. Karl and I are so completely alike, that it's no wonder you fell in love with me."

"Mike," Susan said carefully, holding up a hand in surrender. They'd never make to the bedroom at this rate. "Wait. We always get into these arguments and one of stomps off and we end up wasting time being angry at each other. Listen, I'm not asking for us to get back together. I just want us to be friends."

Mike still looked angry, but he relented a little. "Just friends?" he asked cautiously, as hesitant as she'd been about renewing a relationship that seemed to be continually ending in flaming, fiery misery for both of them.

Susan smiled confidently, slowly moving closer despite her words, aching to feel him within her arms again. "Absolutely. Just friends."

* * *

Some bits of dialogue from this chapter and the previous were taken directly from the ep "I Know Things Now," and do not belong to me, blah blah blah. I try to refrain from quoting verbatim as much as possible, and that's where those rather bland segues come in. (grin) 


	9. Compounding the Problem

A/N: Hopefully the formatting of this chapter isn't too terribly difficult to follow. The short sections between the double lines simply expound on a scene at the end of the chapter. If it IS too confusing, please let me know and I'll try to fix it. Reviews are adored and cherished. :D

Perfect

By: Syn

Chapter Nine: Compounding the Problem

* * *

She pulled away slowly, the sweet, tangy taste of his mouth still on her lips. He was staring at her in surprise, and she realized that things may have just gotten a little more complicated …

* * *

From where he half-lay sprawled on the warm grass in his back yard, Mike Delfino squinted at over his companion's bright grey eyes just barely peeking out from under the large brim of her hat. It struck him that Bree Van de Kamp must be from some era other than this – no other women he knew actually wore sunhats. It somehow looked completely natural on Bree, though, and her skin was as pale as porcelain against his own when their hands brushed as he helped her unpack the lunch for two she'd unexpectedly brought over.

She was a welcome distraction from the self-torture Mike was intent on putting himself through this morning: he had paid off Oliver Weston to keep the PI from delivering the recording of Susan and Karl to Edie – twenty-six hundred dollars out of his own pocket – and now he was wondering why he'd done it.

Well, of course **_he_** knew why he'd done it, but did Susan know?

People would have gotten hurt if the news had gotten out, **_Susan_** probably would have gotten hurt – Edie would have seen to it.

And he couldn't allow that. Not after he had hurt Susan himself, and because he still loved her so damned much. He'd meant that he loved her from the first time the words had slipped from his lips as she hovered over him, russet eyes shining, while they hid in the corner of her laundry area in the spot that Susan called her "niche away," below sight of the windows where the outside world could spill in. Yes, he had meant it then, and he'd meant it when he'd spent almost three grand to ensure her protection from Edie Britt.

And what had it meant to her? What did **_he_** mean to her anymore?

"_Me and Karl?" _

She'd said it like he was crazy. Maybe that lie had been the worst one.

And she'd looked at him like he was crazy when he'd told her that he'd paid off Weston. No thank you, no … nothing. He couldn't think of anything else to say, and so he'd walked away, and she'd let him. Actually, no, not just let him – actually, she'd chased down the mailman instead. Why, God only knew, but that was, he supposed, all a part of the parcel that was Susan Mayer.

And then, to top it all off, when she'd come over last night to thank him, he'd let her in, had thought that they'd reached a point where they could talk about it; but in the end he'd actually turned her away. She'd practically thrown herself at him … and he'd turned her away. He just couldn't get past the Karl thing, and when she had compared the two of them a little part of his soul had chipped off, just like that. She was completely unapologetic about sleeping with her ex-husband; Mike knew that he had no right to be upset with her about it (or that's what he tried to convince himself of anyway, she was a grown woman and could make her own choices), but it bothered him horribly. He couldn't bring himself to touch her, and Susan had stormed off, confused and angry, and he'd retreated into the comfort of the bottle. Mike wondered if he'd simply been stupid, as was usually the case, or if there was something else that had come between them that he just couldn't put his finger on.

So he'd thrown himself into working on his house this morning, trying to erase the images of Susan that kept drifting into his brain – they were always immediately followed by a picture of grinning, smug Karl, and by about the third time that bastard had shown up, Mike was well on his way to full-blown nausea. He couldn't recall ever hating anyone living as much as he hated Karl; though Noah was also on the list, at least **_he_** had never slept with a woman Mike loved – and that was a damned good thing, considering.

Mike had been working nonstop through the morning and into the afternoon, now. If there was nothing else to do, he made work by tearing, gutting, whatever it took. His goal was mindless, numbing exhaustion, and he pursued it with ruthless determination.

And then Bree Van de Kamp had arrived, somewhat hesitantly, having restocked the basket he'd returned to her one afternoon they'd met for iced tea, and for the first time that day, his chaotic thoughts were blessedly calm.

He watched her now, sitting across from him busying herself pouring lemonade from freshly-squeezed lemons. "Thanks again, Bree, for thinking of this – it's great." He admitted with a smile, "I'm not really used to taking actual lunch breaks, even at my own house."

"Think nothing of it," Bree commanded airily, waving a hand on the air. "I've been watching you all morning out here; it's after three o'clock now and any smart-thinking man would have at least stopped for a glass of merlot by now."

"Uh-huh." There was at least one insult to him as well as clue to how Bree spent her afternoons in there, but the redhead approached life so bluntly and innocently, Mike simply couldn't be offended by her. She was … engaging.

"You were … watching me?" he teased, knowing by now that even just a tiny **_hint_** of a mere **_inflection_** of an innuendo in his voice would be enough to add a warm flush to her cheeks.

He was right.

"Well," Bree stammered, a delicate red coloring her pale face. "You know … I've been … weeding … my flowerbeds all morning, and your house is… well, right next door to mine. I couldn't help but notice."

Mike smiled, barely a twitch in his eyebrow. "Of course. You'd have to be blind not to have seen anything."

"Exactly!" Bree declared cheerfully. She looked so self-righteously affirmed, she so reminded him of Elise at that moment, that Mike reached out a long forefinger and gently brushed aside the strands of soft red hair that had fallen forward against her cheek. His fingers lingered in her hair, tangled in the shoulder-length tresses.

"Exactly," he said softly, and for just a moment, the world was still and they looked at each other uncertainly.

"Exactly," Bree echoed with a small smile, leaning into his touch wistfully.

And then Lynette's practical question echoed in her head, and the normally unflappable, pristine Bree Van de Kamp did something that she hadn't done since she was seven years old:

She spilled her glass.

"Oh, dear!" she fussed, startled, as iced lemonade dripped down the front of her shirt. "What a mess, I'm so sorry!"

"It's nothing, you okay?" Mike asked, concerned more by her lapse in control than anything.

"Fine, I just need to run home and change," Bree sighed, gently wringing out the front of her cotton button-down blouse. "At least it won't stain," she tried to say cheerfully, but Mike could see that she was struggling to maintain a wry façade and was actually quite upset by the accident.

"But the fried chicken will get cold," he pointed out, reluctant for her to leave. "Let me just get you a clean one to borrow."

"Oh, I don't know," the redhead waved it off, forehead wrinkled in dismay. "I'm right next door! I'll only be gone a minute,"

"If you're sure," Mike agreed hesitantly. Bree offered him a small smile as she reconsidered.

"All right then, have it your way," she gave in ruefully, swatting at his arm lightly. "But I could just as easily go home."

"I know," Mike returned, relieved. Any time not thinking about Susan and Karl was great by him, and Bree proved a more than adequate distraction."But you could just as easily borrow one of mine."

* * *

"Have you ever done something you really regret?" he asked the woman across from him slowly. 

It wasn't the question that he'd meant to ask, perhaps he'd just been doing a little too much introspection today. Still, he could tell by the way her gaze unfocused that she was considering it, and he hoped that he hadn't inadvertently opened a can of worms.

_Stupid_, he thought. _Think about the year she's had, you ass. Of course there are things she regrets._

It was just a matter of which one she would choose…

* * *

Bree Van de Kamp considered herself an excellent judge of people; her first impressions were seldom wrong.

Despite its ugly ending, she was proud of the seventeen wonderful years she'd had with Rex, which she felt outweighed her complete blindness toward his attitude shift and made up for the heartbreaking final two. Though she couldn't forgive her husband's lack of faith in her, she did take it as a personal credit that they'd managed to stay together for so long.

Bree knew from the moment she had marched little Andrew over to Mary Alice's house to confess to the theft of one of the Youngs' decorative garden ceramics that she and the tall blonde would become great friends.

And she knew from the moment she had laid eyes on Rex's mother that the two of them would never get along.

Yes, Bree could list many examples of success with only a few failures – like Rex's pharmacist and her one-time fiancé George Williams – wherein her first impressions were always borne out, be they good or nay. Bree was unaccustomed to having trouble making up her mind about someone.

That's why it was so difficult for her to realize that she didn't how at all how she felt … about the neighborhood plumber.

Lynette's pointed question about Mike had totally unnerved her. **_Did_** he want more than friendship from her? Why would he? That would ruin everything!

Wouldn't it?

Bree looked at herself one final time in Mike's bathroom mirror, at the way the grey t-shirt he had lent her fell loosely about her thin waist and clashed appallingly with her khakis, shook her head, and descended the stairs.

* * *

___Have I done something I regret?_

She considered the question carefully, but answers came almost too quickly.

The realization that she was no longer … satisfying … her husband.

Rex, holding his chest in surprise, informing her that he was having a heart attack. She'd sent him downstairs and made the bed.

Having Peter's SA sponsor arrested so that she could spend time with her new obsession.

Leaving her son standing by the roadside.

Letting her daughter somehow become so sullen and spoiled.

Letting her drinking get the better of her.

Failing to be perfect.

And, perhaps … what she was about to do ...

_

* * *

_

"You look nice," he said, and he wasn't even teasing her. It surprised her and she smoothed the t-shirt out self-consciously. "Thanks. Back to our picnic, then?"

They traipsed out to the back yard, and resumed their impromptu picnic effortlessly. Bree hated to admit it, but she was actually quite comfortable in the t-shirt and feeling less discomfited than she expected at wearing the shirt of a man she, well, **_hardly_** knew.

Mike finally smiled at her a little awkwardly, then said slowly, like he'd been rehearsing it in his head until he felt it sounded relatively casual, "Listen, I don't know if you'd be up for this sort of thing, but they're actually running a Marx Brothers marathon down at the Rialto on Thursday night, if you'd like to come with me."

With Lynette's query echoing in her head, Bree swallowed her mouthful of chicken and asked cautiously, "You mean, like a date? I don't think I'm ready for that at all! Why, I'm not even interested in you in the **_slightest_**," she protested quickly.

"Whoah, hold on," Mike interrupted wryly, spearing one of the sweet pickles she had canned herself last summer, "before you bruise my ego any further," his eyes were so warm when he smiled that Bree knew that he was teasing her again, but for some reason, it no longer rankled her as much as it had before. "It's not automatically a date when two people go somewhere together – otherwise, Bongo and I would be in a lot of trouble!"

"Oh, stop it," Bree swatted at his arm playfully. "The Marx Brothers?" she frowned. "Isn't that … ah, slapstick?"

"Yep," Mike nodded cheerfully, totally unperturbed by her worried grimace. "I think you could use a little humor."

"My life has plenty of humor," Bree objected disdainfully, never wanting to seem lacking in any area. Mike didn't look convinced. "I'm sorry, I have to decline," she said after a minute, "I'm just much for movie theaters – Andrew is actually the theater lover in the Van de Kamp household."

"Oh," Mike considered briefly, and shrugged. "Would he be interested in going, then? I have an extra ticket; I'd hate to waste it."

Bree panicked. Darn the man! He was so … easy to talk to; she'd have to be careful before she revealed her horrible secret, that she'd abandoned her son. "No! Actually, Andrew's away … at theater camp, as a matter of fact," she improvised with a sweet smile.

"Oh. Well, if you change your mind, let me know."

He seemed disappointed, and truthfully, she was a little disappointed as well. But perhaps, if she didn't consider it a date …

Bree looked at Mike for a long moment. "Actually, yes, I would like to go with you."

"Really?"

"Well, I do have muffins to bake and floors to wax, but I suppose I could make the time."

Mike peered at Bree carefully, his face scrunched up in thoughtful astonishment. "Are you … teasing me?" he asked, amazed.

Bree smiled proudly, her slim shoulders lifting in a too-careless shrug. "Maybe. I can poke fun at myself, too," she added haughtily, "or at least at the fact that my standards of cleanliness are just higher than most people … ah, all people."

"Pretty much everyone," Mike agreed.

"Yes, well, that's not really my error," Bree pointed out.

"Only if it keeps you from coming with me. Listen, it's not a date. I won't even dress up," Mike smiled.

Bree looked at him thoughtfully, almost shyly. "Could you?"

And something broke between them, some barrier they had each unconsciously erected after the one they loved had betrayed their trust. For a moment they reveled in this newfound openness, in this moment of not being alone, and then, without answering her question, Mike asked her one of his own, one that had been playing at his mind since last night; he couldn't stop wondering if he'd messed things up with Susan, and whether the damage was irreparable, and whether he cared anymore.

"Have you ever done something you really regret?"

"No," Bree returned brightly, struggling past the moment, suddenly hesitant. "Why do you ask?"

Mike gave her **_that_** look.

* * *

At that moment, Bree had a flash of clarity …

* * *

She leaned forward and placed a gentle, chaste kiss on his lips. Then she drew back, grey eyes shining, a small, secretive smile curving her full mouth.

* * *

… And she realized **_exactly_** how she felt about the neighborhood plumber.

* * *

"I regret that," she whispered. She pulled away slowly, the sweet, tangy taste of his mouth still on her lips. He was staring at her in surprise, and she realized that things may have just gotten a little more complicated … 


	10. Crimes and Misdemeanors

Perfect

By: Syn

Chapter Ten: Crimes and Misdemeanors

Mike Delfino's warm blue eyes stared at her in surprise as she gently pulled away from the kiss. "Do you really regret that?" he asked breathlessly, pleased shock written across his finely bearded features.

Bree didn't give it a second thought, the answer immediately springing to her amazed mind. "No, I don't, actually," she answered truthfully, her fingers scraping through the short, soft hair over his left ear, her face close enough to his that she could feel the warmth radiating off his tanned skin. "Not one little bit."

"Wow," Mike smiled gently, enjoying the closeness between them; it went a long way towards easing the ache that had persisted in his heart all morning as he'd thought of Susan and Karl. Bree was … amazing, and he was completely won over by the honesty in her grey gaze. "Thank you. And thank you for being honest about it," he added softly. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear the truth from someone other than a private eye."

"Excuse me?" Bree blinked in surprise, but Mike shrugged it off and she let him. He was still standing dizzyingly near to her, and all of her being longed to lean in and kiss him again – and that surprised her, considering that he was covered head to toe in sweat, dirt, and grime from his efforts on the house earlier. She would have thought that the Perfect Housewife in her would be going mad at his current state of filthiness and insist that he get in the shower immediately – but she was also afraid that the woman buried deep inside her would go mad wanting to join him. She tried not to picture how he'd look with drops of water sliding off his naked skin …

"Listen, ah," she murmured somewhat awkwardly, blushing furiously, "I should be going. I, uh, have – "

"Muffins to bake and floors to wax?" Mike grinned skeptically, shaking his head in a _tsk tsk_ sort of way. "Ah, excuses, excuses. Kiss and leave, do you?"

Bree was indignant above her embarrassment at her shamefully un-ladylike thoughts; he'd touched a nerve. "I do not make excuses!" she scoffed.

"Really?" Mike moved in closer, and Bree trembled as she felt her eyes close involuntarily, her chin tilt and her lips part in excited anticipation; his breath caressed her cheek and shivers raced across her skin. Dear Lord, what was wrong with her? She should be cautious, at a distance, careful; but instead she reveled in the warm feelings as they wrapped around her just as his strong arms tightened around her waist.

"I'm so glad," he whispered, and his mouth met hers again.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Lynette Scavo's cell phone rang shrilly. She hated to answer it while she was driving home, but Bree's name flashed on the caller ID. The redhead rarely made phone calls just to chat, so, curious, Lynette flipped the tiny phone open.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I don't know what to do!"

Bree actually sounded as frantic as Lynette had ever heard her, and the car swerved erratically when the blonde jumped reflexively. Lynette managed to straighten the car out in time to hear Bree wail, " – kissed him!"

Lynette blinked, trying to keep her focus on the road. "Bree? Who?"

"Lynnie, I kissed Mike!" The longer Bree spoke, the more it dawned on Lynette that her friend wasn't **_upset_**… rather, she sounded … thrilled. Lynette couldn't help a smile, though she sensed that the situation would soon become hugely volatile if Susan ever found out.

Still, there was no denying the excitement in Bree's tone, and the sheer juiciness of the news was enough to pull Lynette's busy mind from dwelling on the morbid thoughts she'd been considering of what she would do if Tom was cheating on her.

"Mike, Mike," Bree continued quickly, "Susan's Mike. Though he's not Susan's Mike anymore – "

"Is that a good thing?" Lynette asked cautiously, not wanting to dampen the redhead's enthusiasm, but still a little leery about the suddenness with which Bree had thrown herself into the possibility of a new relationship. It was so unlike her.

"Well," Bree responded promptly, "I think so. I mean, I think yes. I took some lunch over, and I kissed him. I wanted to. I don't regret it."

"Wow. I think I'm happy for you … ?" Lynette decided that it was in her best interest and also that of every other motorist on the road this afternoon if she just pulled off to the side, so she did. "You sure that's wise, though? Bree," she added, quietly serious, "if Mike and Susan are really still tangled up in some kind of romantic mess, you don't want to be the rebound girl, you know."

Bree was quiet for a moment, then said solemnly, "I don't want Mike to be the rebound guy, either, Lynette. It's just … I **_like_** him, Lynette. Oh, do you think I'm going too fast? How do you think Susan would feel if she found out?"

Lynette considered, trying to sort through Bree's tangle of questions. Getting involved in this new love triangle was **_not_** something she wanted to do – especially seeing as how her own marriage could be on the rocks. But she also couldn't let her friend down – Bree had had such a hard year, they all had, that if there was a chance to add some happiness to her life, shouldn't she go for it? Lynette slid her glasses on, going into Thinking Mode.

"Okay. I do think you need to take it slow, just to be careful at first until you find out what's going on with Susan. I'll tell you what – how about we get the girls together for a poker game tomorrow night? It's been so long and we could all use the company, to tell you the truth. You can feel Susan out – discreetly – and see where she stands with Mike or Karl or whoever she's with right now. Sound good?"

"It sounds like a wonderful idea," Bree agreed without hesitation. "I'll bring the appetizers!"

* * *

_When I was alive, I rarely missed one of our weekly poker games. The gossip, the stories, the 'girl time' that seemed to make the insanity of the previous week just seem to fade away. I miss that time with my girls so much._

_We started playing after Lynette Scavo moved onto Wisteria Lane – and when Gabrielle Solis joined our little group, well, the gossip only got juicier. In retrospect, we seldom got around to ever actually playing a full game; ninety percent of the time we spent was in sharing stories and supporting each other: Lynette's pregnancies, Susan's divorce, Gabby's struggles to adjust to suburban life; I was there for all of them, and more. No problem or worry, no secret was safe from our inspection – not even, as I recently discovered, mine. _

_Yes, I remember our poker games as one of my favorite times. _

_Of course, I also remember them being much more sedate when I was alive… _

Lynette dealt out the cards, watching Bree carefully watching Susan. _Take it slow, Bree,_ she thought desperately, wishing she were more in control – should she have coached Bree first, maybe?

_No, no_, she consoled herself. _Bree's always such a lady, well-mannered and refined. It'll be fine._

And then she remembered their dinner party from a few years ago.

"So, Susan," Bree said bluntly, "Are you seeing anyone right now? Like, Mike Delfino, perhaps?"

Lynette closed her eyes with a sigh. Still, it wasn't as blatant as "_Rex cries when he ejaculates."_ They might get past it without too much of a problem.

"Uh … at the moment?" Susan seemed flustered – more so than usual – by Bree's abruptness, but she smiled gamely. "Uh, not really anyone right now."

"Oh, that's good to know," Bree said cheerily, scooping up her cards and organizing them neatly.

Her pleased expression soured, though, when Edie Britt interjected curiously,

"So, Mike's free, then?" The bleached blonde's head tipped toward her shoulder cheekily. "I'm so glad! I knew it was only a matter of time and I could use a pick-me-up after Karl dumped me."

Lynette's eyes closed on sigh. Of course peaceful resolution may have been a bit much to hope for. Edie's grin widened and she glanced at her wrist watch exaggeratedly.

"You know, I just remembered someone that I was supposed to do this afternoon. Ooh, I mean, something." She started to rise from her chair. "I'm so glad I'm not wearing a bra today," she added, stating a fact that had already been quite obvious to the other four women.

"No!" Susan said quickly at the same moment Bree echoed it firmly. They looked at each other in awkward surprise, and the sudden hurt look in Susan's eyes stabbed Bree's soul; she remembered Susan's 'casual' visit to her house after she'd seen Bree entering Mike's home, and the redhead realized that the situation may still be more volatile than she'd presumed.

Edie though disappointed, smiled viciously at the sudden tension, amazed yet amused that she **_wasn't_** in middle of it this time. Slowly she lowered herself back down. "So, he's not free?"

Bree looked flustered but gamely deferred, "No! I mean, I don't think so! Er, is he, Susan?" she asked lamely, trying an awkward smile for the brunette seated across from her.

Poor Susan looked so confused, like the pieces to a puzzle she'd been working on in her mind were clicking into place in horrible, slow-motion realization. "I don't know, Bree," she replied and her voice, normally so chipper and bright, was edged in steel as hard brown eyes locked onto the uncomfortable redhead. "Is he?"

"Whoah, girls, settle down," Lynette interjected, trading a nervous glance with Gabrielle. The petite ex-model shrugged.

"He's free as far as I'm concerned," Gabby said with an uneasy laugh. "Too old," she joked, though Lynette was the only one who smiled; Edie just looked at Gabrielle with something akin to pity, being one of the few people on the street who **_didn't_** know about Gabby's affair with high schooler John Rowland.

"Too old?" Edie asked incredulously. "Honey, there's something to be said for maturity sometimes. And the Viagra is hardly noticeable if you keep the action going," she added.

"Ew, oh, okay, thank you, Edie," Lynette stepped in again, and to everyone's relief Edie reluctantly fell silent. Susan was still glaring daggers at Bree, who was staring pointedly back.

Finally, Bree said, "We're just friends, Susan. Just … good … friends."

Susan relented, just a little. "That's all?"

"That's all," _at the moment,_ Bree added silently, unwilling to lie completely but unable to say it aloud. Lynette threw her a glance that she ignored, instead smiling warmly at Susan. "Back to our game, then?"

"In that case, yes, definitely," Susan said with a short, thankful laugh to release the breath she'd been holding. There was a collective sigh around the table as the girls settled back to their cards. Lynette was just about to write off the encounter as a small victory when Bree spoke.

"Although, you realize you can't stake an exclusive claim," she said off-handedly.

Susan stood, threw her cards on the table, and stalked out.


	11. These Small Hours

Thank you all so, so much for the reviews. One more chap and an epilogue, and the fic should be complete. Please continue to review if you can; love it, hate it, feel pretty ambiguous about it, I'd love to know. Thanks. :D

Perfect

By: Syn

Chapter Eleven: These Small Hours

Bree Van de Kamp felt strongly that she needed a drink.

Lately, with the help of Lynette's intervention and her blossoming … friendship … with Mike Delfino, Bree was no longer "wasted off her ass most of the time," as her daughter had coldly remarked. She no longer felt quite so indebted to the bottle for a moment of peace, though sometimes in the small, lonely hours of the morning, she missed the simplicity of drowning her sorrows into numb oblivion. All told, however, Bree was relieved to be back in capacity of her faculties; it made arranging new centerpieces much easier, for one thing.

Tonight, however, Bree's determination to stay sober was being strongly tested. She was fairly certain that Susan wasn't speaking to her, though her daughter Julie had been kind enough to come to Danielle's birthday party tonight.

Bree sighed. Though everything with the party had gone as perfectly as Bree had planned it, she still sensed that her daughter's unhappiness was growing; she simply didn't know what to do about it. She couldn't ask anyone for advice, either – her closest friends with children Danielle's age were Susan Mayer and Mike Delfino. Even if Susan weren't ignoring her right now, Bree thought – not unkindly – that little of how Julie had turned out could actually be credited to Susan, or to Karl, for that matter; both of them seem to lack the ageless maturity that Julie possessed. Perhaps it came from being responsible for her parents from such a young age. Bree wished, secretly and sadly, that Danielle could be as selfless as Julie Mayer.

That only left Mike, who hadn't even _**realized**_ that he'd had a son until just recently, which struck him out in Bree's book.

No, Bree was on her own, and she was actually relieved by that in her own way. She hated asking advice from anyone. Giving it? She was the consummate expert. Seeking it? Not so much. In fact, not at all.

Bree tipped the full wine bottle towards the waiting glass, watching lazily as the scarlet liquid splashed into the cup. She wondered, musing as she filled the glass, where she'd gone wrong with her children. She'd tried as best as was in her to be supportive and loving; to give them everything they'd needed and all that they'd wanted.

Somehow, her best efforts had culminated in her dropping her son off by the side of the road somewhere and her daughter turning into a selfish, promiscuous bitch. Other peoples' children would be _**grateful**_ to have gourmet cuisine for dinner; hers had asked for pork and beans instead. Danielle didn't give a damn that her parents were getting divorced; she only wanted her own bathroom. Andrew had _**slept**_ with Bree's boyfriend.

The reminder made Bree reach for her glass desperately, hungrily eager to drown her failures. A part of her ached for a friend to confide in, but Susan's hurt look still pierced her though Bree knew she really didn't have any reason to feel guilty.

Gabby had left after their game to accompany Carlos and their surrogate/maid Xiao Mei to a prenatal exam, and Lynette had called just a bit ago to tell her that Tom was flying to Atlantic City and she was going after him. They had wished each other well; Bree took comfort in Lynette's words of encouragement and wished she'd had comfort of her own to offer the blonde. As Bree's own marital situation had turned out unfortunately, though, there really wasn't anything but hollow platitudes that she could offer her friend.

Bree again lifted her glass to her lips, blinking in surprise when she realized that it was empty already. _I think I'll take it as a nightcap,_ she decided, clutching the bottle wearily as she trudged slowly up the stairs.

* * *

"_Cause all I really want is to be with you, feeling like I matter, too… " (1)_

The bottle was empty, but she wasn't as drunk as she thought she might want to be.

Bree contemplated fetching another bottle before realizing that she'd dumped them all out when she'd started attending AA meetings because her son was trying to sue her.

Oh, God. Bree drew her knees up to her chest and stared, hollow-eyed, out her bedroom window. After this year it was a wonder she wasn't in a mental institution somewhere having a nervous breakdown. Actually, the idea wasn't half-bad.

Bree looked down Wisteria Lane, quiet at this time of night except for the occasional traffic. Everything seemed so still in these hours; she absolutely hated this time. All of the memories, the failures, all of her pain came crowding in, but she couldn't sleep, couldn't banish the relentless images. So she sat, every night, in her little nook by the window, as she always had when there was something on her mind, or, not so long ago, after Rex had been satisfied for the night and drifted off to sleep. It usually took Bree some time to get over the roughness of the S&M sex Rex desired, so she sat and watched her husband sleep, and tried to remember happier times.

Like now. When had she last been happy?

The question drew her eyes to the home next door, where her gaze had been continually straying tonight. She could see his silhouette, pacing back and forth in his bedroom. He'd been pacing nearly as long as she'd been drinking.

The rational part of her told her stay home. The irrational voice thought that maybe he'd have a drink to share.

Bree rose and dressed, pulling her hair into a French twist. She considered leaving without putting any makeup on, but that wasn't her style so she took a moment to carefully dab concealer over the smudges under her eyes and add some blush to her colorless cheekbones. Bree carefully chose a coordinating jacket in a darker color to provide some cover in the event any of her other friends were up tonight.

She locked the door behind her and walked quickly down the sidewalk (though it would have been much quicker to just cut through their yards, she just felt it would be appropriate without Mike's permission.)

She knocked hesitantly at the door, wondering if she should have called first, but, no, the door opened and there he stood, eyebrow raised to his hairline, and she smiled. "You realize," he said with a small smile of his own, "that it's after two a.m.? The amazing Wisteria Lane rumor mill will have a heyday of anyone sees you out here," he teased.

"I know, I need to get off the street in case anyone is awake," Bree whispered gravely. "Can I come in?"

"Please," he gestured her in, covering a yawn with his free hand. "Tea?"

"Thank you," she nodded, following him into the kitchen, announcing without preamble, "So, I saw you pacing through your window … are you okay?"

Mike looked at her in surprise, which was replaced by a wary sort of relief. To her surprise, he put his hands on her shoulders and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Cream, sugar, honey?"

"Ah, honey, please, if it's natural. I couldn't abide it if came in that little bear bottle," Bree said seriously, her fingers gently brushing across her skin where his lips had been. He laughed shortly, but some of the tension leaked from his muscular frame as he filled the tea kettle with water.

"Fine, honey, then." He glanced over at her, perfectly made up and composed despite the lateness of the hour. "You look really nice," he added.

"Thank you," Bree replied politely, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard after receiving a nod of permission from Mike. "What's wrong? Why are you still up?"

Mike sighed, keeping his attention carefully focused on the tea kettle. Bree almost said something about a watched pot, but refrained. "I was thinking about Zach."

"How ironic; I've been thinking about my children tonight as well," Bree said quietly. "Actually, I came over because I saw you were up and I was hoping you had something stronger than tea to offer."

Mike raised an eyebrow at her. "Not for you, I'm afraid – if I can smell it on you, I know you've had plenty."

"Oh, please," Bree deferred, "I only had one – "

"Glass?" Mike asked skeptically.

"Bottle," Bree admitted.

"Uh-huh. Well, as for something 'stronger'," Mike spread his arms in teasing invitation, "how do you like your plumber?"

Despite herself – or maybe because of the amount of alcohol she'd already consumed – Bree giggled, something she hadn't done in years. "I like him just fine," she answered honestly, knowing that his question had been purely rhetorical.

The kettle whistled happily and Mike removed it from the heat. "So … how well did you know Zach?" he questioned quietly. "I only met him a few times; I wish that I'd known … I wish … was he a happy kid?" he asked slowly. "Paul Young seems so creepy."

Bree came over to stand beside him at the stove, laying a comforting hand on his arm. "You know, Mike," she said carefully, "Zach grew up playing in our yards, he went to school with our kids. If you could have seen them, even Paul, when Mary Alice was alive, you'd have been so proud of Zach. They were so happy, the three of them. Well, until Mrs. Huber tried to blackmail Mary Alice and she shot herself. But Zach was happy, Mike; he was a good kid."

A smile warmed Mike's tired eyes. "Thanks. That means a lot coming from you, you seem to have really nice kids."

"Oh, Mike," how Bree longed to share her terrible secret about Andrew, "It's sweet of you to say, but I'm afraid not entirely true."

"Is that why you're still up?" he asked, pressing her gently into a chair and settling the hot mug within reach of her fingertips.

"It's Danielle," Bree admitted hesitantly. "She's unhappy."

"Why?" he asked, sipping carefully from his steaming mug.

Bree shook her head. "I don't know. She likes the neighbor boy, Matthew Applewhite, but there's something going on there with his family. I can't really talk about it, but I've forbidden her from seeing him. It's for her own good."

"I'm sure she doesn't see it that way," Mike said wryly, "and I doubt that's stopping her."

"I know," Bree agreed sadly, "but I have to be so, so careful. I can't make the same mistake I made with Andrew. I can't lose Danielle, too."

"Wait," Mike interrupted gently, "I thought you said Andrew was at theater camp?"

"Oh, well, I did, but, uh …. " Bree forged ahead before she could talk herself out of it, at last releasing some of the awful burden she'd been struggling under, "that was a lie," she admitted. "I … Mike, I did something awful."

He moved his chair closer to hers, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, giving her his full attention. "Oh?"

"Andrew isn't at theater camp," Bree confessed, staring at her mug. She wouldn't be able to finish if she saw compassion in his eyes. "I dropped him off in the middle of nowhere, actually. He didn't know what I was doing; I told him we were going to tour Perkins College. He … did something terrible, and I just couldn't bear to have him around anymore." Huge grey eyes finally locked onto Mike's, and he could read the desperation, the hurt that she carried. "I'm so tired, but I can't sleep because when I sleep, I dream. And when I dream I keep seeing Andrew's face in the rearview mirror. But I can't forgive him," she averred disconsolately. "Everything I gave up for him, thrown back in my face."

She smiled humorlessly, relieved to have confessed but also horribly self-conscious and she dipped her head in a mocking bow. A long strand of red hair slipped into her face, and she brushed it back reflexively. "So there it is. My secret."

To her surprise, he didn't say anything. He simply kissed her gently on the forehead once more, and then drew her into his arms.

* * *

Bree woke up the following morning in a completely unfamiliar bed.

The realization perturbed her, but she couldn't much think past the raging headache in her temples that reminded her of her binge the night before.

She knew from the way the pillow smelled of him that she was in Mike's bed. She also knew that she needed to get up, and she would. In just a minute. She buried her face in the pillow, inhaling deeply.

Bree awoke again at the sound of a drawer sliding closed; she peered muzzily through the dim room until her gaze settled on Mike Delfino, who was clad in, well, very little. Actually, she would wager, nothing but the towel wrapped about his waist. Bree tried not to stare, knowing that it was just rude, but he looked so good that she was pretty sure the warmth she felt wasn't coming from the blankets she was curled under.

"Hey, good morning," he said, noticing her gaze and sounding entirely too cheery for her headache. Bree blushed and averted her eyes. "I'm sorry, I hope I didn't wake you; I needed to get some clothes."

"Good morning," she replied politely, covering her eyes with a groan. "I take it you aren't one of those people who are useless before their morning coffee?"

"Nope," Mike answered cheerfully, "Can't afford it – I'm afraid a plumber has to be available pretty much around the clock."

Bree had to ask – after all, it was only natural after waking up in someone else's bed: "Mike, did anything, er, happen last night?"

Mike grinned wryly. "Oh, you'd remember if something did, trust me," he leered at her teasingly and she smiled, blushing harder.

"Listen," he continued, sitting on the side of the bed. Bree tried not to focus on how close he was, and how good he looked with droplets of water shining on his bare, tanned skin. "I'm gonna get dressed and then I've got a job, I'm afraid." He brushed the hair away from her cheek and she smiled shyly, knowing this was so very improper but not actually caring. "You're welcome to stay here as long as you like. I'm afraid I'm not much of a breakfast person, but there's eggs and bread for toast. I should be ready in a few minutes, but if you're in a hurry to get on your way, I understand."

"I called Danielle last night to let her know that you were here," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed toward the hall. "And don't forget that it's Thursday – we're going to Rialto tonight. I'll pick you up at six for dinner if that's okay."

Bree stared shamelessly at his well-defined shoulders and back, not even bothering to reply. _Dear Lord, that's hot_, she thought, for probably the first time in her entire refined life.

* * *

Though she was still unsure she would really enjoy slapstick as perpetuated by the Marx Brothers, Bree was nonetheless looking forward to her ah, 'not-date' with Mike tonight. It was special for her because, despite the time they'd already spent together – and the fact that she'd slept over at his house last night because she'd passed out at some point – this was their first official not-date date – i.e., they were doing something that had been planned and prepared for in advance, which warmed Bree's organized soul.

She wanted to run out and buy him a bottle of wine before he arrived in an hour – one that maybe they could _**share**_ later tonight. As she pulled the front door closed and slid her key in the lock, she heard behind her the last voice in the world she'd expected.

"So, I hear through the grapevine that you spent the night at Mike's last night," Susan Mayer announced churlishly, coming to a halt directly behind Bree, who sighed.

"Oh?" Bree felt her eyebrow lift and sighed again, forcibly schooling it back into place.

"Well, Danielle told Julie who just happened to mention it to me," Susan explained shortly. She folded her arms over her chest. "You want to tell me exactly what you were doing with my boyfriend?"

"He's not _**your**_ boyfriend anymore," Bree refuted calmly. "You even said so yourself yesterday."

Susan waved it off, annoyed at having her words reiterated to her. "Things are complicated with me and Mike – that doesn't give you the right to move in on him already! You can't have him!"

Bree knew that Susan was spoiling for a fight, and most probably feeling guilty for everything that had happened while she and Mike were separated; Bree had finally heard from Lynette a gruesomely detailed account of Susan's … frivolous activity with Karl and her spleen doctor. Frankly, it irritated Bree, whose notion of decency did _**not**_ involve having sex with any man who was willing, and it galled her on Mike's behalf.

"'I can't have him?'" Bree repeated disbelievingly, ire up. "Why not? You don't want him!"

"That's not true!" Susan's chocolate eyes blazed. "I do! We just … needed a break."

"Really?" Bree asked, coldly irate. "Well, what have you been doing on your 'break'? Holding out in the hope you'll sort things out?"

"Yes, of course," Susan shot back, "I just needed to think!"

"Please!" Bree spat. "I don't buy your innocent act – you've been in so many beds lately you can't even remember which way is up unless there's a penis pointing the way!!" Harsh, maybe, but Bree was pleased.

Susan's mouth dropped. "That's none of your business!" she snapped.

"Susan," Bree tried one last time to be rational; she didn't want to, but she did want to end this argument with enough time to make it to the store – and have Susan home – before Mike arrived. "Listen, we were all there when you and Mike split up over Zach; we saw how heartbroken you were." She placed a hand on her old friend's shoulder. "If you really want to get back together with Mike you need to sit down with him and sort things out. But I will not stop spending time with him; he's a good friend, and if you're jealous, I'm sorry."

Susan's cell phone rang, and she shrugged Bree's hand off as she fumbled in her purse for the small phone. "I can handle things just fine, thank you! Excuse me?" she asked shortly, flipping the phone open while still glaring at Bree, who waited in awkward silence.

"Hello? Yes, this is she. Mike? Uh, yes, yes, I do." Her face blanched and Bree felt in inexplicable cold settle in her stomach. She leaned in closer, wishing she could hear the voice on the other end. "Thank you," Susan said softly. "I'll be right down."

Her dark, sorrowful eyes locked onto Bree, all traces of anger wiped away to reveal the friend Bree had laughed and cried with for so many years.

"That was the hospital," Susan reported slowly. "Mike's been in an accident."

"_our lives are made in these small hours, these little wonders, these twists & turns of fate  
time falls away, but these small hours, these small hours still remain."(2)_

* * *

"_Hey Jealousy," The Gin Blossoms_

"_Little Wonders," Rob Thomas_


	12. Letting Go

These chapters get longer and longer. No matter, though; all that remains now is the epilogue. Thanks all around for the great reviews and comments, they are so adored. :D Once this story is over I'll be posting a small collection of DH Shorts, sort of a 'missing moments' series. Anyone is welcome to submit ideas or scenes they'd like to see; I love a challenge!

As for "Perfect", love it, hate it? Please take a minute to review. :) Shameless begging, I know, but this fic has become such a labor of love that I'm curious what people think. So thank you in advance.

* * *

Perfect

By: Syn

Chapter Twelve: Letting Go

Bree's hand flew to her mouth in startled horror, a gesture she'd originally cultivated because it seemed like the Perfect Housewife reaction; now it was purely habit, one of many that had driven her late husband crazy.

"What did they say?! What happened?" she demanded.

Susan shook her head numbly, dark hair falling into her face as shocked tears filled her deep brown eyes. "They didn't give me any details, but, uh, apparently I'm still Mike's emergency contact so they called me. I'm going down there," she announced determinedly.

"Do you want me to come?" Bree asked quietly, not sure how to approach her old friend.

Susan waved her off, perhaps a little more harshly than she'd intended. "No, no thanks. I'm sure you already had plans for tonight, you're always busy. I'll go myself." Or perhaps not.

"Of course," Bree said politely, but then thought, _to __**hell **__with politeness!_

"Actually, Susan, I'd very much like to come," she interjected abruptly. "Mike is my friend, too; if you don't want me along with you, I'll just drive myself down to see him," she pointed out practically.

Susan's eyes narrowed. "Well, maybe that would be best," she asserted shortly, turning on her heel and stalking away. Bree watched her go, irritated by Susan's recalcitrance but more upset by the lack of news about Mike. Was it really true that every man she cared about was destined for some awful end?

She was already ready to go, only now her destination had changed. Bree drove to the hospital in silence, accompanied only by her chaotic thoughts.

She stopped to pick up a bouquet of daisies. They always seemed like such a friendly flower, and Bree was certain that Mike would enjoy them. The thought that he may not be capable of appreciating her gift she firmly squelched; surely life would not be so cold as to take another she cared for?

Bree wasn't surprised to see Susan already camped out in the hospital waiting room, curled uncomfortably on a hard plastic chair with a neglected magazine sprawled across her tight jeans. Her eyes were red and her pale face abnormally splotchy from crying. She looked as horrible as Bree felt, and Bree's heart went out to her friend.

"Hi," she said softly, not wishing to startle Susan, and also trying to retain a respectfully hushed tone in the hospital. There weren't many other people milling about the waiting room, but Bree still felt it best to be as quiet as possible.

At first Susan scowled, but then her anger leached away to be replaced by a weary sadness. "Fancy meeting you here," she said with a wobbly smile. "Actually, I didn't think you'd come."

Bree returned her smile carefully, ignoring the barb. "Is there any news?"

Susan shook her head. "Not much. He was hit by a car, Bree." Fresh tears welled in her eyes. "That's all I know."

Bree sank slowly into the chair nest to Susan, stunned. "Any word on the driver?"

"Hit and run," Susan said shortly, dropping her face into her hands. "Bree … "

Bree smiled through the pained tears pricking at her eyes. "Come here, Susan," she said gently, and before her friend could protest, Bree had drawn the brunette into her arms and hugged her tightly, shushing her quietly as she carded her fingers soothingly through Susan's dark hair. It was as much a comfort to Bree as to Susan.

"I'm sorry," Susan sniffed. "I didn't mean to snap at you earlier, it's just … well, I'm sorry,"

"It's okay, honey," Bree appeased, still finger-combing Susan's hair consolingly.

"We had a fight, that's why I was so angry at you," Susan explained between hiccoughing breaths.

"You and Mike fought?" Bree was pleasantly surprised but tried to cover it; now was definitely not the time. "Why would you be angry at me, then?"

Susan shot her an annoyed look but didn't reply and Bree figured it was probably for the best; there was no reason to stoke Susan's ire at a time like this, despite Bree's curiosity.

So they waited.

And waited.

After an agonizingly long while, Bree glanced at the clock tiredly, knowing that she'd have to go home soon; with everything that was going on with the Applewhites, she didn't want to leave Danielle home alone at night. Well, again, anyway. Susan had finally given up twisting the waiting room magazines into nervous shreds and was sleeping fitfully with her head on Bree's shoulder while Bree had been watching the second hand of the clock tick around for approximately five and a half hours. Finally she jostled Susan gently when a tired-looking doctor approached them warily.

"Miss Mayer?"

Susan stood, blinking blearily and rubbing at her eyes, but her tone was tense when she replied. "Right here."

The doctor, a pleasant-looking young man, had a jaded air about him that belied his fresh-faced looks. He sketched a hand through his short hair and offered them a smile.

"I'm Doctor Craig. First of all, Mister Delfino will be fine, physically, in a few months. His left knee was broken in the accident and a couple of ribs as well. He'll need physical therapy to reduce the lasting effects from his injuries."

The women glanced at each other, and Susan asked nervously, "Can we see him?"

The doctor sighed, holding up a hand to forestall questions. "There's also a concussion, and, I'm afraid, blunt trauma to the head resulting in a significant short-term memory loss." He looked grim. "He's awake now; you're welcome to visit, but he's extremely confused. Please don't overwhelm him with trying to remember anything just yet. Sometimes these things come back naturally, and sometimes they don't."

"Do you have any indication of how much time he's lost?" Bree asked quietly, an ache slowly growing in the pit of her stomach.

"About six months," Craig said, confirming her fears.

"Oh … " Susan said smally, as if a thought had just struck her.

"I'd prefer if you went in one at a time, and only for a few minutes," Craig advised. "I'm going to finish my rounds, and then I'll be back to check on him." Bree and Susan followed the doctor to the darkened room he indicated.

"Only a few minutes," he warned again, and by unspoken agreement, Susan went in first. Bree stood ramrod straight in the hall, trying to quell the ache that had tightened her chest and the chaotic thoughts racing around her brain. What if Mike didn't remember? He probably didn't. She clenched the drooping daisies in her hand tightly, feeling a cold anger creeping over her. It wasn't fair! Things had been going so well!

Susan emerged from Mike's room, smiling widely and looking truly happy, which only heightened Bree's rapidly multiplying bitterness. She lifted her chin high and strode past the artist without a word. The man she had lately become quite fond of was propped up in the hospital bed, looking exhausted beneath a mound of blankets and bandages. Bree supposed that being hit by a car could do that to you.

"Hi," she said gently, drawing in a quiet breath at his heavily bruised face. A fine row of stitches decorated his brow, vanishing neatly into his dark hairline.

"Um, hi," Mike responded politely, mortifyingly aware of her scrutiny and self-consciously pressing farther into his pillows. "Bree Van de Kamp, right?"

Bree nodded shortly. "Yes. I, uh, brought you these," she said quietly, raising the daisies into his line of sight. He smiled.

"Thank you."

They stared at each other in awkward silence until Bree asked quietly the question that had been pulling at her heart: "Do you remember me at all?"

Mike smiled gamely. "I remember that you throw really nice dinner parties. With, ah, drinking."

Bree made a noise between a sob and a laugh. "Yes, thank you. I always wanted to be known for my fabulous dinner parties." She lowered herself primly into the chair recently vacated by Susan, trying in vain to find a spot of him that wasn't cut, bruised, or bandaged. "I'm so sorry this happened to you."

"Me too," he sighed tiredly. "It'd be nice to know why; the doc tells me as far as they know it was just an accident."

"Any idea how long you'll be … here?" Bree wondered, fussing absently with the blankets.

Mike shrugged – or that was the impression Bree got, at least, from his limited movement. "Not really. But Susan promised to visit every day, so at least I'll have company."

"Yes," Bree tried a smile, but it fell woefully short. "Would you like me to come visit you as well?"

"I'd hate to interrupt any party planning," Mike teased. "Thanks, though."

"Of course," Bree said seriously. She rose, smoothing out her slacks. "Can I get you anything before I go? Hot tea, perhaps?"

A strange look crossed over his face, but he shook his head. "No, thank you."

Bree nodded. "In that case, I should be going. I wish you a speedy recovery." She laid the daisies on the bedside table, not even bothering to locate a vase, and strode toward the door.

"Bree?"

She half-turned. Mike was watching her, confusion twisting his features as he struggled to latch onto what he was trying to say. Finally he just smiled tightly.

"Thanks for visiting," he said quietly.

Bree nodded again and walked out, squinting in the sudden bright light of the hallway, lost in her thoughts.

"Bree. _**Bree.**_"

The redhead glanced up. Susan was standing in front of her.

"Would you like to get some coffee?"

"I really should be going home," Bree demurred, wishing only to have some time alone to sort things out.

"Please." Susan took her friend's hand. "I need to talk to you for a minute."

They located a coffee dispenser – Bree was about to turn the beverage down, but decided that grasping the mug would at least be something to do with her restless hands. She clasped the Styrofoam cup loosely, her mind already drifting.

"It's like this," Susan started awkwardly, and Bree forced herself to focus on her friend. "Mike doesn't … remember what happened with Zach. He doesn't remember what happened to us, that we split up."

"How convenient," Bree remarked dryly, a sinking feeling she where this conversation was headed. She was right.

"Bree, it's like having a second chance," Susan said excitedly. "I know he loves me. I want to try again."

"But Susan," Bree protested, "don't you think that Mike deserves to know the truth, to make his own decisions? You'd just be manipulating him into believing what you want. What if he found out? What if he remembers?"

"No, not really! I'll tell him the truth, eventually. I just … need a way in. Please," Tears shone in Susan's eyes, and Bree felt her heart go out to her friend. If she could erase the revelation that Rex had died thinking she'd killed him, and she could go back to that point when her love for him had been untarnished, would she? Would she take that second chance if it were offered?

"Please, Bree. I can't stand to be alone anymore," Susan sobbed. "He and Julie are all that I have left. I don't know what's wrong with me lately." She sniffed through her tears. "I remember when I confronted Gabby about sleeping with John. I told her that it was about me and everyone who had been screwed over by someone they loved. I screwed Mike over by messing around with Karl. I have to make things right."

Second chances. How many times, for how many people, had Bree wished for one? She drew her friend in close, hugging her tightly. "I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier."

"Me too," Susan sighed with a watery smile.

Finally, Bree thought about Mike, about the time they'd shared lately, how they this very night had been planning on going out. She thought about the late nights of comforting each other, the cheesy movies, the evening walks. She thought about they way the pain faded away when her hand was clasped in his. And despite herself, she thought about how he looked when he smiled or teased her, and how … pleasant his body was. It was hard to believe that he was same wounded, confused man lying in the hospital bed down the hall.

"Please," Susan said again, and Bree tucked her friend's limp hair behind her ear lovingly. She had told Peter once that she could be really strong for those she cared about. It was time to be Strong again.

"Go ahead," she said softly, "before Edie beats us to it."

And just like that, Bree Van de Kamp once again let go of a man she loved.


	13. Second Chances

A/N: I decided to break off the end of this chap before the epilogue; it just seemed better off on its own. So there's this chap, and then the epilogue. Thank you so much for reading, reviews are so appreciated. :-) Hopefully this chapter doesn't disappoint!

susanmikefan: I appreciate you reading despite your obvious susan/mike slant. (grin) I was stressing out towards mid-season 3 because of the whole Ian thing, but I asked Jamie about it and he said not to worry. I'm musing over a couple of susan/mike fics, they should be up shortly after the completion of this one. And maybe another mike/bree. And I have a Tom/Lynette that's almost complete. hehe, sorry for getting long-winded. :-)

* * *

Perfect 

By: Syntyche

Chapter Thirteen: Second Chances

"_If my life is for rent,_

_and I don't learn to buy,_

_then I deserve nothing more than what I get, _

'_cause nothing I have is truly mine… "_

Dido, "life for rent"

(A Bree song if I ever heard one. )

Bree Van de Kamp sat quietly at her kitchen table, idly streaking her fingernails up and down the tall neck of the glass bottle before her. Her thoughts were a million miles away, but she kept up the slow, methodical rhythm despite the fact that she was leaving smudges – she could wipe them off later, and it was proving to be an utterly mindless distraction. Her chin rested in the palm of her other hand, her grey eyes staring blankly off into the distance as she lazily pursued options for peaceful release from her remorse. Only one thing was immediately springing to mind.

_And so,_ she thought dryly, _I'm right back here where I began. Alone and feeling like a bloody alcoholic. _

Bree was no stranger to guilt, and it was eating at her.

_I wouldn't leave you on any other night, either._

The quiet words echoed in her head. Despite the fact it had seemed like she'd had no choice when confronted by Susan, Bree still felt like she'd betrayed Mike by allowing Susan to manipulate his memories. It was too late to do anything about it now, of course, so Bree simply let the regret pick away at her until she was starting to feel like the bottle was her only recourse for a moment's peace.

There was just one thing stopping her: well, actually it was more like two people stopping her.

The first was her friend Lynette, who had gone so far one sunny day as to take all of Bree's empty wine bottles from her garbage and line them up on her front doorstep.

The second was a man who had forgotten all about her.

Bree tucked a strand of long red hair behind her ear and smoothed down the ratty grey t-shirt she wore.

It still clashed appallingly with her khakis, so she'd chosen a pair of pale blue denim jeans this morning. Wearing the t-shirt she'd borrowed from Mike only made her feel worse, and she suspected that was why she was doing it. Nothing like the constant reminder of loss to cement the depression in.

Bree reached for a wineglass.

* * *

"You okay, honey?" 

Lynette, predictably, had heard from Gaby who had heard from Susan that she and Mike were back together. Bree appreciated Lynette's thoughtful kindness; it was a lot to ask from a woman who was currently embroiled in bitter negotiations with her husband's former, pre-Lynette one-night stand for visiting rights with her husband's illegitimate daughter.

"Of course. Are you?" Bree smiled into the phone, trying to convey a lightness of voice that her heart wasn't feeling. She knew she wasn't fooling Lynette, but it helped Bree feel just a bit more that things were normal.

Lynette laughed, the high-pitched chortle that always shone through when she was tense. "Of course." She sighed. "I feel like hell, too, Bree. Since you've 'given up' drinking, what do you think about going out for a drink tonight?"

Bree broke into a real smile. It amazed her how well her friend knew her. "So, what you're saying," she paraphrased wryly, "is that you know I'm looking at a full bottle right now and you'd like to control the circumstances of my drinking it?"

"Exactly," Lynette confirmed cheerily. "And I certainly wouldn't mind sharing it with you. Does that make me a hypocrite to take you out for a drink?"

"No, it sounds like a plan," Bree countered with a quiet grin. "Shall I pick you up at eight-thirty?"

"That'd be fine. And, Bree?"

"Yes?"

Lynette's voice was genuinely amused, but carried an undercurrent of her inner firmness that made Bree blush guiltily. "It's nine a.m. Put the bottle away and go scrub toilets or something."

Bree looked at the full bottle remorsefully; she'd been so close to indulging when the phone rang. "Yes, dear," she sighed. "I'll see you tonight."

The redhead rose from the table and gently replaced the cordless phone in its cradle with a small, cynical smile. Trust Lynette to be practical regardless of the situation. It was one of the many reasons, as Mary Alice had said to her and Susan shortly after meeting a newly-pregnant Lynette, that the blonde was far better a friend than an enemy.

Bree glanced at the clock. 9:07a.m. Only eleven hours until she could pick up Lynette. Well, ten hours and forty-five minutes, if she wanted to be early, as usual.

Her stomach rumbled and she sighed. She should probably get a healthy breakfast in before she started scrubbing toilets. And the downstairs bathroom would need to be attended to; she was certain that Danielle had been brushing her hair over the sink again, and Mike wasn't around to look at it this time.

Bree lightly fingered the hem of the t-shirt she wore.

Not this time.

_You promised_, she thought bitterly. _You promised that you wouldn't leave me. Not this time. Not any night!_

Just like Rex, who had sworn to her that he would love no other. She knew that it hadn't been Mike's fault, but he'd _**promised.**_

The hell with it! She wasn't waiting for Lynette! Bree snatched up the wine bottle angrily and stalked to the refrigerator for a chilled glass. The sound of her elegant door chimes deterred her attention momentarily, but Bree promised the bottle it was not forgotten. Not like her.

Irritated, Bree grasped the handle and swung the door open.

Mike Delfino stood on her doorstep, shifting awkwardly on a pair of crutches. He looked more pissed off than anything by the cast encasing his lower left leg and impeding his usually fluid movements, but his face brightened into a smile when he saw her.

"Bree. I'm glad you're home. Can I come in?"

"Of course," Bree said, somewhat dazedly, waving him in. It was harder than she expected to face him; it had been a few weeks since she had been to the hospital with Susan. Faint bruising still marred the area around his wary eyes, and there was a tense set to his expression that hadn't been there before. He carried himself stiffly and it was no wonder.

"Ah … please sit down," she added, leading him into the kitchen. "I was just about to make breakfast," she said brightly. "Can I get you something?"

"No, but thanks," he said shortly, directing his attention into hobbling after her. Bree's fingers itched to help him somehow, but she sensed that would only aggravate him further; clearly he was not used to needing help. It was one of the many similarities they shared.

She pulled a chair out for him and gestured for him to sit. "I didn't expect to see you," Bree said honestly, trembling inside. Why was he here?

Mike sat down awkwardly, and she suspected it was only because his injuries were paining him from the irritation that tightened the muscles of his jaw.

"Sit, please?" he requested and she complied. "Can I ask you something?" he continued, and Bree felt the nervousness tightening her stomach intensify.

"Of course," she said again, facing him with a smile plastered on her face, smoothing down her jeans as she sat.

Surprising her, he reached over and brushed his fingers against her chin, his blue eyes latching onto hers seriously. Her skin tingled as it remembered the feel of his rough skin, and she wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the moment; it was a touch of peace unlooked for, the only thing besides alcohol lately that had calmed her ravaged spirit.

"Bree," he asked quietly, "Why did you give up on me?"

Bree stared at him for a full minute before she spoke, shock slowly seeping in. "You … you remember? You remember us?"

"Yeah, I do," he said softly, still grazing her cheek lightly with his thumb. "I didn't at first; not really, everything was so hazy for a few weeks after the accident. And when I remembered, you were already gone."

Bree rose abruptly, suddenly feeling the need to move, as if that could get her away from the uncertain feelings that were crashing over her. "I had no idea. The doctor wasn't sure … I'm about to make breakfast," she interrupted herself, latching onto something familiar: a task that she could perform, and perform outstandingly. "Please tell me if I can get something for you? Poached eggs? Toast with homemade jam?"

"Nothing, thank you. Bree – "

Agitated, Bree rummaged through the cupboard, more for show than anything because everything was already perfectly arranged. "Well, I think I'd at least like some toast," she said, desperately bright. "Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

She pulled a loaf of bread from the cupboard and fiddled with the bag. She felt like she needed to answer him or be considered rude, so she added lamely, "I … I'm sorry. I felt so awful for Susan," she confessed. "She's been through so much – "

"Much more than you, of course," Mike agreed sardonically. "Please come sit," he requested gently. "I know you're upset, but please just sit with me 'cause I can't really follow you around right now."

"I couldn't bear to not help her," Bree said honestly, sliding a couple pieces of toast into the toaster. "I, ah, can't sit right now; I'm afraid the toaster is on its last leg and I have to watch it like a hawk or it might overcook."

"I see," Mike nodded, dryly amused. "Bree, I appreciate your willingness to help a friend, but … did you stop to think how I might feel?"

Bree focused hard on the toaster, directing all of her attention to staring at the tiny dial. "I did. But they said that … that you wouldn't remember anything that had happened in the past few months. I didn't think you would remember us."

"You were awfully willing to bank on that, I guess." His hurt tone reproached her gently, and she sighed nervously, replacing the bread in the cupboard.

"I remembered how happy Susan was when you two were together, and how much she talked about wanting to share her future with you. I wanted her to be happy," she confessed.

"What about you? Don't you deserve something you want? Don't _**you**_ deserve to be happy?"

"Me?" Bree smiled her Perfect Housewife smile. "Of course I'm happy."

"I don't believe you." Mike rose awkwardly to his feet and shuffled over to where she stood anxiously, looking everywhere but at him. He reached out and took her hand carefully with his free one.

"But … Susan … ?" Bree protested weakly.

"I already talked with Susan," Mike interjected. "She's gonna be okay." He tilted her chin so that her grey eyes were locked onto his. "_**You**_ are the one that want," he whispered. "The question is, would you be happy with me?"

A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind, but one stood out above the others. _He said he wanted her. He had chosen __**her**_

"It's possible," she said primly, outwardly calm though her heart was racing, "but I'd like to do a little research first."

His eyebrow twitched upward, but was restricted by the stitches. He grimaced and let it slide back into place. "I see. Is there something I can do to help?"

"Would you mind," she asked shyly, "if I kissed you?"

Mike smiled. "Not at all."

Bree smiled back and slid into his waiting arms, being extremely careful not to jostle his ribs, her lips parting expectantly, excitedly, at his nearness. She reveled in the remembrance of the kisses they'd shared, but this time, when his mouth met hers, it was different somehow. Before it had tasted of the excitement of newfound closeness, of unexpected intimacy.

Today, Bree tasted the sweet promise of a glistening future with a man who had unexpectedly come into her life and gently soothed the ache from her heart. She tasted his desire for _**her**_. And just a hint of salt water.

Bree opened her eyes when she realized that silent tears were tracking down her pale cheeks. She sniffed just a bit and sank back into his careful embrace. And though she was enjoying kissing him very, very much, he suddenly pulled away and she realized why – the toaster was smoking and the acrid stench of charred toast was quickly creeping into the air.

Mike reached around her and popped the toast up quickly, and Bree was astounded to see that the multigrain bread was scorched all the way through.

As she stared at the smoldering remains of breakfast, her late husband's voice echoed in her head:

_Where's the woman I fell in love with, who used to burn the toast and drink milk out of the carton?_

Added to the shock of the morning, it was all too much for her. Bree started crying harder. And laughing.

"What's wrong?" Mike's arm tightened around her waist, and she tucked her head into his shoulder gratefully, still hiccupping with laughter.

"You can't want me," she sniffed. "I'm so unlovable! My husband hated me, my kids hate me!"

"Shh, it's okay," he stroked her long red hair gently, holding her close against him. Bree listened to the rumble of his voice in his chest, trying to lose herself in the sound.

"You know," Mike said softly, "I remember the first time I met you, at the dinner party you had to remember Mary Alice Young. You seemed so cold, so harsh and unforgiving. At the time I just shrugged it off, but now I think you use that to distance yourself from everything. I think that underneath it all, you feel strongly about a lot of things and I don't know why you would try to hide that, why you would try to hide who you are. Why you feel you have to perfect all of the time."

Bree exhaled slowly, a lone tear dripping off the edge of her nose. "I … don't want people to be disappointed in me," she whispered, touched by his words and his clarity. "I don't want to let them down."

"Disappointed in what?" He continued carding his fingers through her hair, and Bree thought that she would wear her hair down all of the time if he would simply keep doing that.

"In me! In anything!" she sighed in frustration. "I make so many mistakes and I just can't stand the thought of anyone thinking that I can't do it, that I'm not strong or good enough to handle everything." It hurt to admit it, it sounded too much like something Rex would have accused her of. Still, if they were tallying faults, her compulsion to take on everything was nowhere near his adultery.

"But Bree, you don't have to," Mike reminded her softly. "You've been through a lot, Bree, more than I could handle – more than anyone should _**have**_ to handle. But you're not alone." He smiled at her, and a tiny bit of warmth blossomed in her aching heart, like the first rays of the morning sun on the horizon. She buried her face in his shoulder, feeling for the first time in so long that she could make her way back from the desolation she'd been buried in since before Rex had died.

"I'm here. I'm right here." His rough hand rubbed small circles on her back, the calluses catching on her t-shirt.

"I'm glad," she sniffed, tucked under his chin carefully. "Thank you for coming back to me. I felt so awful about giving you up."

"It's okay," he soothed, and she wondered how he'd ended up comforting her when she felt like she still owed him an explanation. "So," he asked carefully, "did you decide? Will you give me a chance?"

Bree looked up at him, her smile sweetly radiant. "I think I can do that."


	14. Epilogue

A/N. Thank you. Simple words to convey my gratitude for all of the suggestions and reviews.

Perfect

By: Syn

_Epilogue_

Beside her on the couch, Mike stirred drowsily, and Bree shifted carefully before tucking herself back comfortably against his chest. He was sleeping fitfully, his outstretched leg propped on the low ottoman she'd bought solely for his use.

She watched him quietly, his brow furrowed even in sleep. Weeks after the accident, his injuries still pained him, and he was exhausted much of the time. He was miserable at being kept from his usual workout and jogging, and his work schedule was incredibly limited; in reality, he really couldn't do much of anything. Mike was mending as well as could be expected, but the inactivity was wearing on him. In trying to cheer and occupy him, Bree was reminded of Rex's convalescence after his heart attack, but she didn't look at it this time as a chore, as a duty she _**had**_ to perform. The thought that all of her effort at caring for her husband had ultimately ended in his believing she had murdered him still burned her, and as she reflected on it in irritation she was reminded of a conversation about Rex she'd had with Mike the morning a few short days ago that he'd shown up on her doorstep.

"I think I can do that," she'd said with a smile, feeling truly radiant for the first time in a long while.

"Good." He'd hugged her tightly, and she'd relished the feeling of the simple gesture. "There's just one thing I want you to consider doing for me," he said seriously.

"Oh? What's that?"

Mike had leveled a serious gaze into her grey eyes. "Try to forgive him."

"What?" Bree shook her head immediately, not even giving it a second thought. "No, I can't. I refuse," she stated primly.

"You can." He touched her chin, tilting her face toward his. Bree's lips twisted in irritation.

"Why do you care?"

"Because I care about you," Mike had replied honestly. "And it's eating you up. Please just try? I know it's not easy, I just think you really should try it."

"Very well," she huffed, but mostly for show and to quiet him. It had ended that line of discussion, but she'd known he wasn't convinced.

Now, as she watched him shift restlessly, Bree actually thought about what he'd said. Forgive Rex? She shuddered. Forgive him? Clearly, Mike wasn't as informed on her psyche as he'd claimed; saying that her drinking problem and all that had followed had begun with Rex's desire for a divorce. It had to have been precipitated by something else. George, maybe … although, she had only starting seeing George socially to punish Rex for his betrayal.

Er, was Mike right?

Bree thought about it for a minute more, then, making a decision she gently disengaged herself from Mike's arm. She dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead, lightly tracing the thin scar that ran through his right eyebrow. "I'll be right back," she whispered, unsure if he heard her or not. He nodded wearily, eyes still closed, and she ran her thumb across his cheek with a smile. She just loved to touch him, to hold his hand, brush his cheek, kiss his tanned skin; it was like a thread of happiness gently winding its soothing way through her soul.

Slowly, Bree made her way upstairs to her bedroom hesitantly, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Forgive Rex. How hard could it be?

Bree began pacing, trying to think. She really wanted to crawl back onto the couch with Mike and watch more horrible Godzilla movies. Forgiving her late husband seemed unnecessary and slightly degrading – but for some reason, Mike deemed it important, and she hated to admit that he might be on to something.

Bree sniffed disdainfully. Ridiculous. She could get on just fine without Rex. The bitterness she felt for him was her companion, the remnant of her late husband she carried in her head to darken any fond memories of him she may have had left. Bree continued pacing, out of nervousness rather than habit, trying to think of the proper way to go about forgiving someone you had no intention of forgiving.

Alright. She would try. Sooner tried, sooner completed.

"Rex, I forgive you," she said brightly. There, done.

Now, just about time to think of what to make for dinner. She tried to imagine Rex nodding graciously as he accepted her forgiveness gratefully. "I appreciate it very much, Bree," he'd say, "but the fault is all mine. What was I thinking? You could never do anything to hurt me, I know that."

Bree's cheery smile faltered, an unexpected kink in her plan. _What had we become in the end, Rex?_ she mused. _I loved you so much, once. I loved you for so long._

The redhead closed her eyes and tried to remember her husband when they'd been happy, how she'd felt when he'd promised to love her forever, the joy they'd shared at their beautiful children, the simple feel of his arms around her when she'd believed she was his only one.

"I forgive you," she said again simply, but she knew her heart lacked the conviction to truly mean it. As she considered, something Mike had said to her months ago about talking to his late wife drifted through her mind. Bree had never been possessed with an overactive imagination – too untidy – but it was worth a try to exorcise the hatred and salvage the good memories she'd been trying to forget.

Bree thought for a moment, trying to imagine the perfect scene. She smoothed down the already neat bedcovers and after some initial uncertainty pulled from the darkest corner of her closet Rex's second-best suit – the only thing of his that she hadn't packed away – removed it from the dry cleaning bag and laid it out carefully on the bed.

She tried to envision her husband sitting before her, wearing that amused smile he often had when around her. It was amazingly hard – she'd spent so long trying _**not **_to think of him – but she was fairly pleased by the end result. She could picture him looking at her with his eyes crinkled in a smile, surrounded by the faintly impatient air of a doctor who had clients to see or a game of golf he needed to get to.

"Hi," she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ear self-consciously. She was wearing Mike's grey t-shirt again today and she wondered what Rex would think if she appeared less than kempt. She wasn't even wearing her mother's pearls.

"Hi," he replied, sounding slightly surprised to see her.

"Are you … well?" she casually asked her manifestation of her late husband.

Rex shrugged. "I'm dead, so as well as can be expected. You?"

"Fine, fine," she said cheerfully, twisting the hem of the t-shirt just enough to keep the nervous energy in her fingers occupied without wrinkling the cotton fabric.

Rex's mouth twisted in wry disbelief at her too-bright demeanor. "Are you lying to me?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes," Bree admitted. She sat down on the bed and impulsively imagined that he put his arms around her tightly, something he hadn't done in a long time – even when he was alive, she amended to herself, so as not to sound silly.

"I miss you, sweetheart," she admitted.

"I miss you too, Bree. How are you holding up?"

"Fine, fine," she said again. "The kids are fine. Well – Andrew ran away, and I think Danielle almost ran away with the neighbor boy, but they moved … abruptly. I don't know why." She sighed. "Every family has its secrets, I guess."

"I guess so," Rex agreed, his arms tightening reassuringly around her slim shoulders.

Bree sighed, took the plunge and released the bitterness that had been consuming her: "Well, I just wanted to say that I forgive you for thinking I murdered you."

"I know that you didn't," Rex admitted. "I was just so confused at the end. I wouldn't have blamed you for doing it, though, with the way I acted."

Bree smiled tightly. "I guess you underestimated how much I loved you." She turned to look at him, to drown in the love they'd shared for so many years before their lives had changed, before he'd strayed, and before she'd been perfect.

"Yes," he said honestly, "I did."

"I forgive you," she said simply, and this time, knew she meant it. The brick of pain in her heart crumbled into tiny pieces and blew away, as if a warm wind had swept through the dark corners and routed out the remainder of her unwillingness to forgive her husband. It felt good, and Bree smiled as warmth flooded her as the tension in her chest dissipated.

Rex smiled, already fading away before her eyes. "Thank you, Bree."

Bree sniffed smally, reaching out toward him. There was one more thing she wanted to say. "By the way, Rex, you'll be pleased to know that I burned the toast this morning."

Rex grinned back, phantom fingers entwining with hers. "Good."

Bree sat quietly on the empty bed for a moment longer before rising and re-hanging Rex's suit in the closet. Feeling oddly light-hearted, she slowly descended the stairs and made her way back to the living room. Mike was awake and waiting for her, and without saying a word she tucked herself back against him, sighing in relief when his fingers drifted through her hair.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes. And thank you."

His brow furrowed. "For?"

"Taking care of me." She nestled against his strong chest carefully; dear Lord he felt good. She wanted to cry, laugh, and sigh, all in joy and contentment she hadn't thought she'd feel again. "Choosing me. Helping me to be better."

"Oh." he said, and she felt him smile into her hair. "It's my pleasure."

* * *

_My friend Bree Van de Kamp is many things: mother, friend, confidante, the consummate housewife, and more. For Bree, however, all of these things paled in comparison to her true goal for herself: Perfection. _

_Fortunately for Bree, the Road is filled with many surprises, one of which is that sometimes when we stumble off of the safe path, when we bite off more than we can chew, and when our dreams of being flawless come crashing down around us, the most unlikely people, those who in the beginning barely know us at all but somehow know us better than we know ourselves, are the ones who reach out a hand to guide us back._

-- finis


End file.
